ANK Red Cat 0 Last Dream
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: How Iason met Katze. Flashbacks clashing with the present; starting before Katze is crippled, converging around the time of Katze's 'accident' and Iason's 'acquisition' of Riki. Mainly Iason's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**ANK Red Cat – Last Dream**

**Fandom:** Ai No Kusabi  
**Disclaimer:** The characters in this story are not mine. This story is not for profit.  
**Rating: **M  
**Warnings: **Male/male affection  
**Characters:** Katze, Iason  
**Summary:** Iason and Katze; how they might have met. Flashbacks clashing with the present. Set before Katze is crippled, this is weaving in and out of the timeline of my other ANK Red Cat stories.

**Note: Warnings/disclaimer valid for all chapters of this story.**

This story is for all of you: **KhalaniK**, you've been a star throughout, I am indebted to you for all your support. **Hespera Nova**, thanks for all your lovely feedback, it was great. **barrie18, **I still feel a bit guilty about chapter 9; I hope you'll enjoy. **celeste. g.r., Odgir,** thanks for your notes and for the work you've put into the translation.

xxx

**Chapter 1**

"_It's raining." The words are drifting, deep and cool, in the darkness of the large room. "It hasn't been raining in a long time."  
__A mattress creaks. The flick of a lighter, a golden flame licking over pale features, glittering in narrow eyes, then darkness again. It is softer now, warmed by the glow of a cigarette and the smell of smoke, the sound of a deep breath, in and out. "I can't remember the last time." A man's voice, a little hoarse, taut like a bowstring.  
_"_I can." A small silence, then, "Come, lie down again. It's too early to get up."  
_"_I need to work."  
_"_It can wait."  
_"_I have to-"  
_"_Let me tell you what I remember."  
_"_Man, Iason, quit the crap. "  
_"_Katze... I knew it from the day we met."  
_"_Huh?"  
_"_Huh. You sound like Riki now." Silence, and then the deep voice weaves into the darkness again. "It was raining, like now."_

xxx

A dirty autumn afternoon, rain freezing into sleet, keeping the stink of the clogged gutters down. It doesn't get much more depressing, Iason thinks, than this time of the year in the slums of Tanagura. He dislikes being here. He cannot stand Ceres with its filthy, hopeless streets, condemned tenement blocks and vermin slinking among heaps of garbage. And even though he knows, it surprises him every time to see amid the scrawny inhabitants of those streets men that dress well, drive expensive cars, and carry themselves with confidence. Those men, in their smart suits and sleek rides, have business in Ceres. They belong here, like the junk whores and flea-ridden dogs the homeless cling to when the nights get cold, like the broken drains and human waste bubbling from the canalisation with every rain.

Iason burns with the desire to clean the place up, to flatten it, scour it until it is nothing but a shiny new slate on which he can paint his dream. A new city, an extension of beautiful, glamorous Eos, home of perfection, his home. This is where Tanagura's Elite live: flawless people, designed long before their conception by the computer they call Jupiter. Each created from perfectly screened and assembled genes, condensed into a single precious seed, implanted into a woman grown for this purpose only. These wonders of biotechnology and genetic engineering are taught from the earliest awakening of consciousness the wisdom of Iason's world. It is congealed in the minds of those select few, and they have cast their glory into the soaring lines of their cities and the refinement of their pleasures.

Iason feels impatient. The base instincts of the dark masses of Ceres repulse him – their greed, their hunger, the relentless, rapacious cycle of destruction that has the slums digest their children to feed even more misery. A hothouse of dirt. And yet they thrive, he thinks, in wry disgust, as if stuffed with the best food and living in the cleanest places. Because the people of Ceres possess something the Elite don't have – they can sleep with each other, and they can bear offspring. They have few daughters now, after generations of weeding out those prone to procreate to quickly, but they still grow. Like fungus, he thinks, that spreads on rotting soil, and there aren't enough machines yet to replace all those working hands.

Iason, if he could, would hate the slums, but he has been taught that Elite do not have such passions – that kind of dissolution, the lack of control, is for lesser people. He is left without a name for what knots in his belly every time he dives into the darkness of Ceres. Yet he is clearheaded enough to understand that the Elite still need Ceres, that Eos has its roots deep in the churning guts of the slums from where it draws its lifeblood, that the pulse of money beats hard here and drives the gleaming heart of Amoi.

He would like to trim the messy seams of Ceres though, do away with those he deems unnecessary, but he knows it cannot be done yet. It irks him that his control over Amoi, over Tanagura, is not yet absolute. Time, he thinks crossly, everything takes so much time. If this was Jupiter's perfect model, what went wrong? He clamps down on this thought as quickly as it slipped into his mind. Perhaps, he reasons with himself, it was meant to happen in stages, and it was the calling of the Elite to keep building, perfecting, honing it, until Amoi was perfect. Yes, that had to be it.

xxx

"_Is that what you were thinking?" Katze's smoky voice cuts in.  
_"_It is so dark in here... I can't see your face." A non-answer.  
__Katze lets it go. Bedsprings sigh and the mattress dips under the weight of his body settling next to Iason. The cigarette brightens, casting a golden glow over pale, sharp features, thin lips drawn into a cool smile. "You sound like an old woman."  
_"_And how would you know that? There are no old women in Ceres."  
__A shrug, a rustling of sheets, the shifting of limbs.  
_"_Put that fag out, you're singing my hair," Iason demands softly.  
__A long breath of smoke, then Katze reaches over to where he knows his ashtray sits on the nightstand. Iason puts his palm on Katze's chest. "I missed you."  
__Katze stills, awkward in his half-turned pose. Iason's touch is warm and heavy, and he feels his heart thud against Iason's splayed fingers. "I missed you too," he says quietly.  
__Iason leans over to touch his lips to Katze's nipple, then up to his cheek that bears a deep scar, cutting from his temple to his chin. "You know that most Elite avoid Ceres. Most of us never set foot outside of Eos."_

xxx

The Elite know Apathia, where they keep expensive penthouses for their favourite toys, and the pleasure quarters of Midas to the south of the shiny city. They use the casinos and amusements in Areas 1 and 2, clustered around Orange Road, the broad, tree-lined avenue that leads into the heart of Eos. They don't care much for the rest.

But Iason, head of the Council that governs the world of Amoi, has analysed his world enough to conclude that it would be unwise to ignore the slums, or the centres of heavy industry in HerBay and Mistral.

He understands that the key to Eos lies here, and he indulges his scientific interest in the survival of the slums.

Iason also has business here, and some deals he prefers to close in person. He is a collector of curiosities – colours, sounds, smells, scenes lodged in his memory that never forgets anything. He has gathered enough moments to know that he is missing something crucial – something he cannot grasp, that has been eluding him for as long as he has become aware of it. Iason cannot sense moods. He can read the signs, the physiological reactions and body language, but – like all Elite – he cannot feel them.

And as countless times before he wonders whether he is alone in missing something.

xxx

The Elite keep servants – toys – made the oldfashioned way, the way the scum in Ceres multiply, although couples are carefully selected to produce the desired offspring, and they spend their reproductive lives in places called academies. It has been like this for generations, and no-one in the living memory of Amoi has known things to be different. The children so produced are reared and educated to the liking of their future owners who will place orders sometimes before a coupling is completed. Some Elite, such as Prof Dr Raoul Am, most eminent geneticist on Amoi and Iason's business partner, have developed several genetic lines to perfection. There are patents for the most successful combinations of genes, or imprints; there are limited lines using only couples in their prime reproductive stage; and there are waiting lists of Elite who have ordered such toys. The much-coveted reservations are traded among well-off Elite, and prices for the most desirable imprints are astronomical.

There is little detail in Jupiter's laws about this, although most of Amoi's inhabitants believe that their lives are regulated completely by the computer's Code. History is taught only to the select few, the ones who need to know and understand that Jupiter's control has brought order to the chaos that once threatened to destroy their world, and from their circle the rulers of Amoi are chosen by the Council, and their appointment confirmed by Jupiter after vigorous vetting. Jupiter, Iason knows, is a repository of all their thoughts, their memories, their minds. Jupiter is as close to one of the old-fashioned gods as a machine can be.

Yet it is the shows that give it away, thinks Iason, that not all is as perfect as Jupiter computed it to be. Shows where Elite gather to watch their live property stage erotic performances, the events dressed up in various guises – an elegant dance, or a rough-and-tumble, a mock struggle, very rarely a real fight which is always classed as an accident, something aberrant that is quickly rectified by selling the offending toys off to the next best trader. Rough toys have no value for Eos Elite. These things happen mostly with toys of doubtful descent, fake imprints, or with those that have been sourced from outside the adacemies. Officially, they are an embarrassment to their owners. There is much at stake – reputation, money, and sometimes even a few exclusive imprints. But Iason knows that there are underground events too, and those resemble dogfights where people get hurt, sometimes badly, and Elite have been known to attend. He is still not sure what to make of that, but to him it's a flaw in Jupiter's design that has him wonder what else is amiss.

The trade in live toys is a booming industry on Amoi. At the shows, bets are placed and deals negotiated. Iason has read in old archive records that in times before records began on Amoi, people kept animals like that. He finds the idea offputting. He thinks that there is refinement in keeping beings that are human after all, and Elite compete to produce the finest specimen using what they term the natural way. Sometimes it amazes him what the best breeders can achieve. A frequent visitor to the regular trade fairs where contracts for new toys change hands, Iason never tires to admire the beauty of new, perfect issues, and the emptiness of their minds. He never doubts that toys need their owners to survive on Amoi.

xxx

"_You wish," Katze says under his breath.  
__Iason kisses his lips. "You are different. I always knew."  
_"_I really need to go now."  
_"_I don't like to be kept waiting."  
_"_Aren't you happy with Riki in your bed?"  
_"_Don't push me."  
__A grunt, then, "If you think I'm flattered, you're wrong."  
_"_Your thoughts are your own." __Light suffuses the darkness like golden mist. Iason rises and wraps into a dark blue silk gown that sheathes him from neck to toe, outlining the contours of his muscular body. "I expect you to call. Soon."_

xxx

On to Chapter 2.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Note: Warnings/disclaimer from chapter 1 are valid for all chapters of this story.  
**_  
Katze is dressed – in ratty jeans and a grey jumper under his old off-white coat – and in the driver's seat of Iason's sleek limousine before Iason appears in the gleaming lobby of Eos tower. Smoking, Katze watches Iason talk with Raoul. From the distance, they look small in the sofaring glass-and-steel vestibule, and for a moment Katze wonders whether this is real – people with the appearance of porcelain dolls and the minds of machines – and then he feels the aftershocks of the previous night hum through his body, and he smiles and leans back into the leather seat, waiting for Iason._

_When the blond steps out of the building, Katze gets up to open the rear passenger's door for him. _

"_At least take that fag out when you're here," Iason says, his brows drawn tight. _

_Katze drops the cigarette and grinds it out with his heel. "If they knew-"_

"_Perhaps they do." Iason takes his seat and Katze closes the door before sliding onto his place behind the console of the car's pilot computer, complemented by a steering wheel like that of a games console. "Where are we going?"_

"_Ceres," Iason returns calmly._

_Katze looks at him in the rear-view mirror. "The old man been cooking the books?"_

_Iason makes no reply, watching Katze's narrowed eyes._

"_I remember everything," Katze breaks the strange silence as he taps the console with the fingers of one black-gloved hand, programming the computer with the co-ordinates of their destination. _

"_Yes," Iason says quietly, "so do I."_

xxx

Iason is flicking through the images on the computer terminal before him. He sits at a grimy desk in a grey room. A window of dirty little panes, a grid of iron bars outside, overlooks a wide yard with high walls of concrete elements, topped with coils of barbed wire. Bookshelves line the walls from the dark lino floor to the discoloured ceiling. They are packed with paper files and boxes for computer discs, each labelled with a name, number and year.

By the side of the desk stands another man, his posture servile, shoulders hunched. He has wispy grey hair, leathery skin and an unshaven chin, but his eyes are alert and sharp, his smile thin and hungry.

The screen shows the picture of a youth on the brink of manhood, unclothed, his face blank. Underneath, text, names, origins, descriptions. Iason pushes back from the desk and glances up at the grey man beside him. "Is that all?"

"Your Excellency," the man bows a bit lower, casting his gaze down. His shoes are unpolished.

"Well?" Iason gets up and squares his shoulders. The grey man reaches barely up to his chest – thin and spare like a straggly bird against Iason's muscular frame.

"I am sorry we cannot please you. You know how grateful we are for your patronage-"

Iason waves him off. "Yes, yes, save this for your other clients."

"Sir, may I ask-"

"You know my taste. These," Iason nods at the screen, "are boring. Bland. Your merchandise isn't up to standard, and I am considering taking my business elsewhere."

The man turns pale. "I've been supplying you for years, I've invested, the orphanage has become renowned. We need your patronage."

Iason stares at him. "I wonder where you've invested, Noram. The place is crumbling, a disgrace. Filthy. I don't want my name linked to something like this." A heartbeat of silence, then, "I had the books audited and some research done. You didn't notice, did you? I'd expected to find new cars or land titles somewhere expensive. You're either very shrewd, my friend, or lucky."

Noram chances a quick glance at Iason. "We've been donating much of the profits to the old hospital in Ceres…"

There is a long, uncomfortable pause, until Iason shifts. "You're wasting my time and my money."

Fine beads of sweat appear on Noram's forehead and upper lip. "I've been sourcing from there," he says reluctantly, "some interesting items... It's unfortunate that I haven't been able to supply to your Excellency's taste, but I assure you, it's only business sense that's guiding me, to try and satisfy your Excellency's needs as best as I humbly can."

"Are you accusing me of excerting pressure?"

Noram swallows, his throat bobbing. "I… I apologise if I overstepped my mark," he murmurs hoarsely.

Iason pushes the chair back and reaches for his coat that is draped across one of the armrests. "I expect you to work harder. The items you supplied in the past were satisfying but not to my specifications. Didn't you think I'd notice? I sold them on."

"What you're asking is… difficult to achieve," Noram says, barely above his breath. He looks tense and afraid, his eyes darting about, his nails whitening against the tray.

"Use your connections."

xxx

Noram reaches for the door to open it for Iason when the knob turns and the door swings open. There is a brief, shocked silence, then a hasty, whispered exchange, until Iason steps close and pushes Noram aside.

He is caught by strange eyes – slanted, of a deep golden colour, almost yellow. Iason, about to leave the office of the man that sells lives for a living, pauses as the youth's gaze briefly meets his before flicking away. A height that, Iason registers curiously, almost matches Iason's eight feet. Flaming red hair, cut short. The youth is wearing ripped, fraying blue jeans, rubber sandals on grubby feet, and a wildly printed black tee that is too baggy for his frame. He is clutching a sheaf of papers and a mobile phone to his chest. His face has lost the soft lines of childhood but Iason thinks that he might not be quite out of his teens yet. About three times as old, in the unaging perfection of the Elite, Iason is staring.

Noram clears his throat; Iason lifts his hand to shut him up before he can say anything. "Your name?" Iason demands from the redhead.

"Katze." It is a pleasant voice, broken and already smoothing out again, surprisingly deep for someone so thin and lanky.

Iason reaches out to cup the youth's chin, turn his head this way and that, and feels himself grow warm as he detects a certain resistance, an unwillingness to comply. "Katze. I didn't see you in the catalogue."

"Sir," Noram dares, "he's been causing trouble, there was no suitable buyer, and-"

"Is that true?" Iason asks, studying the redhead's semi-profile. High cheekbones, an angular jaw, a narrow, sharp nose. A smattering of pale, almost invisible freckles on its wings. Iason brushes a few of those red strands back, uncovering a surprisingly small ear, its edge blushing pink as he runs his gloved fingertip over it. Katze's hair reaches down to the nape of his neck. The youth before him doesn't move, giving Iason time to look at him. A narrow face with skin so white it's almost translucent. Regular features, a long, slim neck and angular shoulders, a lanky body.

_Perfection_, Iason thinks, irritated. He sees it in every line, proportion, the pale skin, the wilful bow of thin lips. He turns to Noram. "I want his details. Call me when you're done."

When the old man has left, Iason lets go of the redhead. "What are you doing here, Katze?"

"I live here." A non-answer.

Iason steps to the window, linking his hands behind his back as he glances outside into the dirty street beyond the yard. The youth's calm begins to irk him. "Then you know Jupiter's Code?"

The same, barely noticeable reluctance. "I've never seen one of you so close."

"Won't you apologise?"

"I apologise."

Yet Iason has the feeling that he's still staring.

Iason nods. "Now, let's try again – what are you doing in this place?"

"I'm helping out. Office stuff."

"And when you're done?"

"I go home."

"Where is that?"

"Upstairs. I've been here forever. Nobody wants someone my age."

"When you were younger, nobody asked?"

Katze shrugs. "I'm not house-trained," he says, sounding oddly polite even though what he says is a barb. His expression is carefully blank, but Iason can read his unwillingness in his posture, the way he carries himself, and how his knuckles whiten as his grip on the phone tightens.

Iason has no idea what drives him, but he goes with the impulse when he says, "Would you like to come to Eos?"

A quick glance from slanted eyes, before a thin smile curves Katze's lips. "I'd not fit in."

xxx

It is a novel experience. As the head of the council that governs the shimmering city of Tanagura, Iason is used to debate and criticism. He is used to haggling, polite or forceful. But he is new to being refused by someone like Katze. Riding back to Eos, the guarded heart of the city where he has an office suite at the top of Eos tower, he puzzles over it. He could have bought Katze without the redhead's consent. He could have taken him away without giving reason or money. But he is intrigued – by the audacity of being looked at like that, as if Katze had been weighing him, taking his measure, in the blink of an eye.

Iason tries to decide how he should feel about this while the autopilot guides the limousine smoothly through the dirty streets of the outer districts of Tanagura. The car swings onto Orange Road, passes through the red glow of Apathia, Lhassa and Midas, and soon slides through the main gate into Eos. By the time Iason steps into his office suite, he has a plan.

xxx

On to chapter 3.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Note: Warnings/disclaimer from chapter 1 are valid for all chapters of this story.**

"_Is that why?" Katze's voice slides into the soft buzz of the engine.  
_"_Why what?" Iason returns.  
_"_Why you couldn't leave me alone?"  
_"_You smell of smoke."  
_"_Man, Iason..."  
_"_I admit it was... interesting. I wanted to know what else I'd find."_

_Katze pulls the car up by the side of the road. They have left Eos and its suburbs, passed through Midas and driven along Orange Road, but Iason has ordered Katze to override the board computer and carry on driving, missing the exit towards Ceres on the great central roundabout near Love Inn. Instead, they've carried on until the city fades behind them into a mountain of glittering glass rising from a base of dull greys and browns, and the road before them fades into layers of yellow dust. The black tar of the road starts to show cracks and holes, and in some places it has melted from the heat of the sun in summer, and sagged at the edges. T__he desert stretches to the horizon in shallow waves, covered in sparse dry grass as hard as wire, scattered with rocks rounded by erosion and bleached by the sun. _

_Katze parks the car where the tarmac of the road surface ends in a heap of left-over tar, as if the builders had decided that this was it and dumped the rest of the material in a heap into the sand. _

_To Iason, this place feels like a monument to the limits of Eos. His limits. He gets out of the car before Katze, who – free of the need to demonstrate decorum where nobody can see it – stays put, slouching in his seat, playing with a pack of smokes. Iason stuffs his hands into his pockets and stares across the pile of overgrown old tar into the endless plain. Even the sky is yellow here, he thinks, the colour that is reflected in Katze's eyes._

xxx

Iason takes his time with the audit. It takes many trips to the orphanage and many hours of Katze's time.

"You don't really care, do you?" Katze asks one day when Iason doesn't react to a question about a double-entry for a payment made.

Iason, looking out of the window, his back to the room, turns slowly and regards Katze for a few moments. "I can't come here anymore. It's inappropriate and a waste of my time."

Katze closes the accounts ledger on the desk and pushes back his chair to get up. "Then perhaps-"

"I need someone to manage my household," Iason cuts in, folding his hands behind his back. "It isn't a position for an Elite, but most inventory items lack the skills and... faculties to deal with my domestic affairs. You would be paid for your work. In turn, I would expect you to live at Eos and be at my disposal at any time. I have a busy schedule, and you would need to work with my office assistant who is an Elite. Of course, you would need to refamiliarise yourself with Jupiter's Code of Conduct to avoid embarassing me or anyone I have dealings with."

Surprised, Katze pauses.

"You may look at me," Iason says.

Katze blinks. "But..." He thinks for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. "I don't think I can do it."

"Do you know who I am?"

"I heard of you," Katze replies carefully.

"Then you know I would not need to ask."

"I don't understand it."

"Then perhaps I overestimated you." There is a spark of wry amusement in Iason's gaze. "Very well, I will be plain. I need someone to check that I am not being overcharged for the food I eat, the clothes I wear, that my business partners pay what they owe me, and that my tax bill is correct at the end of the year. It's mundane but necessary. Is this sufficiently clear?"

A shade of incredulity passes over Katze's face. "You mean, you want me to be your collection agency, credit control, book-keeper?"

"I cannot do everything," Iason says, sounding haughty.

"Delegation," Katze says smartly. "It works."

"That's where you come in." Iason folds his arms, and Katze glances down at his feet. It seems easier, less distracting, than to take in Iason's impressive height, his muscular shape, the flood of silverblond hair that frames his perfect face.

"I haven't said yes," he tries, but there is less conviction in his tone than there was before.

"Is this your tactic?"

"What?"

"Trying to make things harder than they are. You ran into me on purpose, did you not? You have a plan, ideas, something you want for your future. Something you cannot find here, but you need me for it. So let us be clear. I offer you to work for me at Eos. A unique opportunity. In turn, I would expect you to bend your back a little." A small smile plays over Iason's lips. "Even I have to do that."

Katze gives him a tiny smirk in return. "You?"

Iason shrugs. "Can you drive?"

xxx

Custom means that it is the preferred way for Elite to source their toys from reputable breeders. Yet for those who cannot afford the status-labels, the expensive academy imprints, there is a thriving market in used toys with expired contracts, handled by dedicated brokers at discount prices. And then there are the illegal traders, dealing in pirated or fake imprints, freshened-up broken toys – those that have fallen ill in spite of their robust breeding, or that have grown too old and have been discarded, to spend the rest of their lives working in Amoi's industries. Sometimes they pick up on a particulary sturdy and aggressive toy that will push up the betting stakes at the illegal shows. Yet unprepared for any of that, toys never last long outside of Eos. Some traders have made it their business to steal or illegally buy fresh arrivals from factory managers, then resell them with falsified documents to unsuspecting – or sometimes knowing – buyers, dividing the profits along the chain of trade, and offering hefty kickbacks to law enforcement and the inspectors that licence the contract brokers. It is a thriving black market, in spite of all efforts to stamp it out. Iason has been facing increasing pressure from the legitimate breeders to clamp down on the issue. He has discovered that the black market involves powerful Elite. It has surprised and disappointed him to find his suspicions confirmed, and he has been treading carefully, biding his time. Officially, he has done little more that issue reassuring statements while quietly researching the matter.

Finally, there is rough material from the slums. Young men and women desperate to get out, hoping for a chance or at least a temporary reprieve in Eos. Very few of them become toys; most are too raw and end up as house servants. When the shiny new world of Amoi rose from the blood-drenched ashes of the old one, Jupiter computed the strict rules of its new order. There would be no uncontrolled mixing of imprints, leading to passion and chaos again. Jupiter's optimum solution was to neuter all non-Elite. In practice, Iason knows, it couldn't be done; there was too much resistance in the slums, and Elite had raised concerns – the lucrative toy industry, the pleasure quarters, the businesses depending on them all meant profit, influence, power. But, as a token and for the sake of convenience, it has become the fate of all house servants. If they want to work in Eos, they have to accept it.

In all, Iason thinks, Ceres isn't good for much in the eyes of Tanagura's Elite. It's an eyesore, filthy and rough, spoiling the perfection of the city. Fenced in with concrete and steel, it is left to rot. It's only goods are live. Cheap. Ceres is selling its people, and Iason knows that Tanagura is gorging itself on this throwaway fare.

Sourcing toys from the slums is not illegal, but it is not explicity allowed either. Jupiter's Law is silent, interpretations vary, and the Council is divided over the issue. Most Elite agree that toys from the slums, no matter how early they are purchased and how carefully they are trained, will eventually cause trouble, disturbing Jupiter's peace. Trouble is frowned upon in Eos where conformity trumps all other considerations. Owners who cannot rein in their toys are ridiculed or fined, depending on the kind of trespass and the level of aggravation. A loss of face and money can ruin political ambitions and break business relationships.

Then why, Iason wonders, do Elite risk buying toys from the slums? It is unreasonable; there should be no attraction. He hasn't voiced his question. He is careful as to what might become known about his fixation – the laws ruling life on Amoi, a scenario devised by Jupiter after analysing thousands of years of striferidden history, are designed to keep Amoi stable. Iason and his Council are the keepers of Jupiter's Law. He cannot afford to trespass without risking his position, and he does not wish to push Amoi into bloody unrest either. And, he thinks, nobody can match the accumulated wisdom of Jupiter's electronic mind.

xxx

When Iason is gone, Noram slaps Katze. "Idiot," he snaps.

Katze raises his arm to protect his face. "Knock it off," he says, "you heard him. You don't want to spoil your merchandise, do you?"

"What makes you think he'll bother? Or that you'll be here long enough?"

Katze straightens and tugs his tee smooth. He smiles thinly. "He knows. He thinks I have an illegal imprint."

"And if it's true, he's gonna have you killed. I should have left you with your useless whore of a mother. Shooting up until she snuffed it, throwing away every chance she had. What do you think this is, a charity? You thankless brat. Out there, in the slums, the likes of you don't make it through. If I'd not kept you, the headhunters would have finished you ages ago."

"You were waiting for the right buyer, that's all," Katze returns, his tone cool, neither spiteful nor worried. "You think he won't know about your little sideline? Dealing in illegal imprints is good business if you can get it without hanging yourself. He knows."

"Like nothing he does," Noram snarls, but his rage is without power.

Katze sags into a hipshot posture and smiles. "Hey, just make the best of it. Me, I will. Besides, he doesn't look half-bad."

"And who will pay my expenses if he takes you? You?"

Katze shrugs. "I kept your house tidy."

"You bullied your way through and ran a racket here."

"And you knew and let me, as long as you got your share. I just kept them off my back." A small break, then Katze smiles, his expression sly. "Perhaps you should offer him a gift, to keep him sweet..."

xxx

Over time, Iason he has grown more certain that some things are askew, and it does not let him rest to see, unsettled and amazed, his childhood convictions fade. It has become his obsession, his secret quest, a pursuit as crazed and unreasonable as the search for a phantom. Perfection. Iason wants, needs Amoi to be perfect, just as Jupiter has calculated it would be, and he believes that this is his purpose, the reason he holds his position. He is fuelled by his mission as the most powerful Elite, the one closest to Jupiter's artificial mind – the combination of the entire wisdom of his world, accessible only to a select few, shaped into this endless dream. And he is looking for a key, a clue, here in Ceres. Raoul has told him that it is not possible to produce perfection the natural way, the dirty, grunting way that non-Elite procreate. Raoul has shown Iason his calculations of the odds; they were convincing and solid. Scientific. Modelling based on thorough research and a wealth of evidence.

Iason has not argued with Raoul. He knows his own limits, his power considerable whilst supported by the Council but tightly controlled by Jupiter's mandate. He also knows the gaps in Jupiter's code, precisely. Stealth is something he has learned easily, his reasoning in favour of science. So, as unlikely as it is for his shiny limousine to glide through the narrow backstreets, he could be just another dealer making his round. He has dressed down, leaving his grand uniform of office for a dark suit and rollneck sweater, his face masked by a pair of large black shades, his long blond hair tied and hidden under his jacket. He has given his minders the slip without difficulty, programmed the car on autopilot, and allows himself the luxury of doing nothing but watch. He is smoking, something he won't do in Eos because he considers it a weakness, and nobody will see him weak.

Iason's car turns a corner and glides down a sidestreet. Strands of sleet glitter in the beams of the headlights. The rows of run-down buildings fade into the thickening dusk. Gaps between buildings widen, giving way to wasteland and ruined factories. Service alleys cross, tarmac gives way to potholed concrete. The stink of desinfectant is on the nightbreeze; not even the car's air conditioning can filter it out. The headlights strike grey-painted steel, red bricks, a wall, a double gate. It opens silently to let Iason's car pass.

A group of young men and boys are playing football on the wide yard. It is enclosed by walls that are topped with razor wire and flanked by what looks like a former warehouse, a battery of skips on one side and a row of bicycles on the other. They trap the smell that seems to suffuse the air. A single yellow bulb above the door to the building provides some light. For a while, Iason sits in his car, smoking. The youngsters carry on as if they hadn't seen him. Some of them have thrown off their tops in the heat of their game. The hard, shiny soccer ball narrowly misses his windscreen, whacks against the wall, and howls of triumph and agony tell him that the goal has been marked against the wall where he has parked.

A horn honks, once. The youths gather the ball and their clothes and run into the building. The windows are barred. Dim white light trickles through grimy panes. Some are nailed over with plyboard.

With the noise of the game gone, its quiet on the yard, the din of Midas and the buzz of Eos only a whisper. Occasionally the cracking of gunfire or a police siren tear through the evening, but beyond that, there is silence. Iason sits and listens, and when he's finished his smoke, he gets out. Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, he crosses the yard.

Iason has long stopped buying Raoul's creations. It is here he comes to satisfy his curiosity and fill up his collection of rare toys.

xxx

A couple of yellow, long-teethed dogs with chaincollars are dozing by the gate. The yard is busy, some of the smaller boys playing catch among the rubbish bins; the older ones cleaning the house that has four floors of dormitories, a large kitchen and refectory on the ground level, and a rooftop criss-crossed by washing lines, vegetables growing in boxes, and a chicken pen.

Katze, wearing a knitted beano hat to cover his flaming hair, is a thin shadow in a corner of the yard. Everything else seemed to be in motion, chaotic and noisy, but there is silence around him. Russet red hair, pale skin, a perfect face, cool and serene. He seems too young to be smoking, in thick, lazy puffs, while watching the others.

The redhead is gone by the time Iason has parked his car, but when he settles in the grimy little office on the first floor, from where he can overlook the yard and a stretch of the street beyond, he has no interest in the catalogue or the account ledger that Noram shows him.

xxx

Iason's interest has grown since the redhead has caught his attention, and he has not bought anything since. He's been leafing through the records in the catalogue – pictures of faces, bodies, descriptions, physical and mental properties of the young men whose contracts were up for sale. There are no girls at the house – there are hardly any women in Ceres, or on the rest of Amoi. This, Jupiter has calculated, would limit the spread of wild growth and help control the non-Elite.

Iason has come to know the place; it's a microcosmos of Ceres lacking only the filth. The air is thick with latent aggression that shows in the way the games on the yard resemble bloody battles, the fight over the best place in the queue for food, and in the harsh hierarchy they have at the house. It's based on force and cunning, powergames and occasionally open fights. Noram lets the place run itself. He has the money, the connections, that they all need. He pays the young men that come out on top of the heap, and lets them use the weaker ones as punchbags. Few run – the hope to get away from it all, to be one of the few who get contracted to an Elite owner, is too tempting. They bear it until to most of them it's just part of life.

xxx

Iason spends hours gazing out of the dirty office window, the catalogue open and disregarded on the desk. He watches, clearheaded, observant – and intrigued. Katze is a bully, he thinks, the scrawny frame misleading, the sleepy expression a mask. He is good; even the older boys at the home don't mess with him. Now and then a newcomer tries it on, but the young man's message is always the same, he never takes long relaying it, and if threats and posturing aren't enough, he doesn't hesitate using force.

Iason's curiosity is starting to make him restless, along with his frustration because most of the time it remains unsatisfied. He is wrestling with reason, struggling against something that unsettles him because he doesn't understand it. He doesn't accept that he is fighting a losing battle with himself.

xxx

Iason seeks enlightenment in Jupiter's hall. As always, he feels a touch of awe as he steps into the belly of the giant mainframe, the supercomputer that forms the walls, the gleaming hallways, the floor, the ceiling of the enormous room, and fills the weight-bearing structure of the massive building that houses it, like an ancient timberstructure translated into ultra-modern materials. There is no need, really, for the effigy of a female figure, a hologram that floats in the cool dusk of the room that seems to dissolve into the starry sky of Amoi. As if walking on clouds, Iason thinks, his steps echoing softly. It is warm from the power generated by countless processors, the intricate ventilation system keeping them from frying. Iason knows that on infrared images of Amoi, the building glows white-hot, pulsing like a gigantic heart.

He takes his seat in the chair in the middle of the hall, facing the hologram, and relaxes. Waiting to hear in his mind the voice that's been coming to him since he can remember. At first, all is silent. He wonders, his gaze on the effigy, his concentration fading. And then, without warning, thunder bursts into his thoughts with deafening intensity, and he tears away in shock.

He has closed his mind to Jupiter, and to Raoul, since.

xxx

On to chapter 4.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**All warnings and disclaimer from Chapter 1 apply to this one too.**

**xxx**

_The smell of cigarettes is in the hot air._

"_I wish you would quit," Iason says._

"_Look who's talking," comes the lazy reply. Katze's eyes are half-closed; he has a vague smile on his lips, and smoke curls from his nostrils. _

"_It is bad for you." Iason half turns, his brows raising as he regards the redhead with a mix of amusement and annoyance._

"_Nobody in Ceres lives long enough do die of lung cancer."_

"_You could try."_

"_I don't want to." Katze drags himself up and climbs out of the car before he starts cooking in the heat that beats down relentlessly. There is no point turning on the climate control with the doors open – it would be like trying to cool the universe – but he is loath to be cooped up in the cabin. He takes the fag out and wipes his sweaty face with the front of his tee that clings dank and slightly smelly to his skin, then he takes a last hungry pull and drops the butt. H__e is startled when he feels Iason's touch, gloveless, on his upper arm, trailing to his elbow before falling away. _

_Iason pulls him close. "How about a little discipline?"_

"_You can try that with Riki," Katze says, glancing up to meet Iason's gaze, then his lips in a kiss that tastes of dust. _

"_Riki..." Iason draws back and lets go. Turning, he links his hands behind his back and gazes out into the desert. "He understands his place, yet he is still struggling against it. Why?"_

_Katze steps close and embraces him from behind, linking his hands in front of Iason's stomach and resting his chin on Iason's shoulder. "Habit," he says, his eyes sliding half-shut again, his body growing heavy as he relaxes against Iason's broad frame._

_Quickly, Iason lays his hand on top of Katze's, clasping him firmly. "Your habits..."_

_A smoky laugh. "Have you ever done it in the car?"_

"_What?"_

_Katze presses his lips against Iason's ear, breathes in the scent of Iason's hair, and tells him what he means, his urgent whisper growing hotter as Iason's grip on his fingers becomes crushing. There is a tiny, tight break, before Iason whips around and seizes Katze's shoulder to push him back against the car, tear open the door, and shove him in._

_Katze sprawls out on the spacious rear seat and laughs as he watches Iason try to undress without hitting the ceiling of the car all the time. Iason scowls, then gives him a thin-lipped smile. "We still have to go to Ceres."_

"_Yeah." Katze unzips his slacks. He kicks them off, folds his arms under his head and waits for Iason to settle over him. Iason braces himself, his face hovering over Katze's, his hair dusty-blond around them. The climate controls start buzzing madly. Katze presses his knees in Iason's flanks. "You'll have to drive back yourself," he says huskily, sweat sheening his face and pooling in the hollow of his throat. _

"_Why?" Iason asks distractedly, letting his focus slip deliberately. He doesn't want to know now, not really, not with his mind settling between his legs and anticipation strumming in his blood._

"_I got business there," Katze says, dragging him down and close, until Iason's weight is pressing the air out of his lungs. Katze lets go of a long gasp, and then they are one; he melts into Iason, throwing away reason and sanity for a few slivers of eternity._

_When they're done, and Iason has restored his decorum, he picks up exactly where they left. "You tend to disappear. Is it not enough that I have to contend with Raoul's concerns? Do you have to lend them substance?"_

_Katze slides onto the seat behind the wheel and waits for Iason to settle, next to him this time. "You know I'll always come back."_

"_Do I?"_

"_You put the tracer on me." Katze turns the car back, the engine a barely audible hum, the cabin growing pleasantly cool as the air conditioning kicks in. A cloud of dust rises as the car rises and begins to hover on its anti-g-cushion._

"_Is it enough?" Iason enquires._

_Katze slants him a narrow-eyed gaze, then shakes his head. "You feed me, you give me stuff to play with, and from time to time you allow me to mark my territory. In a word, you're good to me, so I come back."_

_Iason's face has flushed a deep, angry red, and his neck is rigid, his jaw set firmly as he stares ahead at the road that takes them back to Tanagura. "You have certain talents," he says, and his voice – cool and calm – belies his expression. "But nobody is irreplaceable."_

_Katze smiles. "I am. That's why you took me to Eos."_

_Iason turns away and gazes out of the window, at the fleeting yellow and white-blue of desert and sky. "That was a long time ago..."_

xxx

Katze sits behind the computer in the office and watches a number of data streams converge, fizz past his eyes that stare unblinkingly. He is smoking in long, lazy draughts. He looks up when Iason steps through the door and pauses, and then he gets up and offers a small bow. "Your Excellency…"

Iason turns the computer screen and considers the data, then he glances up, his eyes meeting Katze's golden gaze. Attentive beyond the cool smile, freckles like specks of sunlight on the pale skin. Iason takes a few heartbeats to admire the fiery hair and the perfect proportions of Katze's face. He thinks that Katze looks much younger than his nineteen years, his boyish face an odd contract to his deep voice, but it's his eyes that are most startling. Old eyes. An old, young body – barely marked but thin and whipcord tough, and confident in a way that makes Iason wonder what Katze has experienced already.

And as stillness spreads between them, Iason has reasoned enough with his doubts. "Sit," he says.

The redhead obeys, squashing his cigarette out on a dirty saucer.

"I told you that I am tired of coming here," Iason says, folding his hands behind his back and stepping to the window. "It's inappropriate and time-consuming. And the place is unsuitable for you."

Katze smiles. "It's a sea of opportunities."

"Is that so? What are you then, a big fish in a small lake or small fry in that sea you're talking about? You are making more money for that old man than he'd ever get for any of his deals."

Katze shrugs. "I like it. I'm my own boss." A small, sly smirk. "The cat that gets the fish."

"What is this, confidence or attitude?" Iason's eyes glitter as he turns to size Katze up. "Come and see me in Eos." He watches the effect this blunt, rather forceful offer has on the redhead, and is disappointed when he reads nothing in those white features.

"How would I do that? I wouldn't even get past the main gate," Katze says dismissively.

"I'll arrange a temporary pass for you."

Katze blinks. "Isn't that… I mean, isn't this illegal?"

There is a small pause, then Iason shakes his head, just once. "There is an option."

Katze's brows rise in an expression of doubt and suspicion.

Iason reaches into his pocket and puts a wide grey metal cuff onto the old desk. He has been carrying the thing with him since the day he first asked, and now he is determined to bring things to a head. "Pretend," he says softly.

Katze stares at the cuff, then makes an effort not to look back at Iason directly. He stares at the window instead, Iason's tall shape in the periphery of his vision. Red flecks start blooming on his cheeks and neck. "I'm not a toy. Or one of THEM."

Iason watches him with interest. "Comfort, money, pleasure. It can be a good life. What is it you don't like?"

"I'm okay here. And I like my kit."

"I promise," Iason says, "that I won't keep you against your will. No shows. And I won't injure you." He doesn't need to do this, he could take Katze, buy him, confiscate him at a whim, and they both know that, yet he bargains; curious, entertained and mildly irritated at the resistance he encounters.

"What do you want with me then?"

Iason has expected this question, and all the others, and he has rehearsed his reply that comes smooth and cool. "Company. Someone who can handle my affairs in a competent way."

"Affairs?" Katze shakes his head. "I'm not sure…"

"I've had enough time to watch you running this place."

Katze reddens some more. "I'm not-"

"I've done some research of my own." Iason cuts in. "You're smart, and you've got guts trying to hack into my system."

The colour drains from Katze's features at once, leaving him ashen, his lips white, but he says nothing, knowing that denial won't help. Instead he is trying to keep his nerve, gauging the situation.

Iason lets him sizzle for a moment before saying, "I trust you can cope with the work I have. I am offering you a chance. Can you afford to throw it away?"

Awkwardly, Katze clears his throat. "Why... I mean, why would you trust me?" Especially now. They both think it, they can see it in each other's face, until Iason takes a deep breath.

"Katze," he says, with an undertone of puzzlement. As if tasting the name. "Sometimes, I like to gamble. It keeps things interesting."

Katze says nothing. He just stands there, stonestill, as if that could make him invisible.

"Well?" Iason breaks the odd tension between them.

Katze winces. "How would I get back?"

"You're haggling with me?" A small smile tugs at Iason's lips. "I'm not prepared to wait. And I cannot see how you can afford to refuse."

Katze smoothes out his tee, his yellow eyes flicking absentmindedly past Iason, considering the room, the desk, then back to Iason, locking on a strand of silverblond that has fallen forward, over his chest. "You promise?"

"I promise," Iason says, and he means it.

xxx

On to chapter 5.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Note: Warnings/disclaimer from chapter 1 are valid for all chapters of this story.**

**Here is a heartfelt thankyou to those of you who have sent me feedback on this story; I will also reply individually to you. It's great to have your views; sometimes they spark off new ideas or help shape a particular part of the story. barrie18, it's lovely to hear from you again; KhalaniK, what a great email!**

**As an aside, I think some of the timeline will be a bit fuzzy and not entirely congruent with the remainder of the Red Cat sequence. The main difference being that – if applied strictly – the other timings would mean that here Katze would either have lost his kit already, or he would not use this tone with Iason. This would have restricted the arc of this story (whose original idea was an after-death setting) too much. I hope it will still hang together enough to make sense (and for me to see through Iason's POV).**

xxx

"_Elite," Katze says, contempt thick in his tone. "You and your promises."_

"_How about yours?" Iason replies quietly. The red flush has subsided. "Do you have any idea what it cost me to do this? To have you here, with me?"_

_Katze snorts. He doesn't tell Iason that his hair still looks a bit ruffled where he can't see it. "I know that your mate Raoul would snuff me the first opportunity he gets."_

"_Raoul wants to study you. He is curious."_

"_Just like you? Or is he different-curious? I bet he wants do dip into something hot and dirty now and then, too. He needs a good screw to put him right, up here," Katze taps his own temple._

"_Stop talking like that," Iason orders, a twang of anger rising in his voice._

_Katze is smart enough to shut up as sharply as he has fired this broadside at Iason, but his resentment makes the sudden silence heavy._

_Iason watches the landscape change, the first fringes of the slums spread into the desert like the overspill of a rubbish container, then the car rises softly. Tarmac changes into concrete slabs as they enter the old industrial area with its warehouses and the odd condemned multistorey-rental. They are close to the orphanage. __Iason thinks how claustrophobic these streets feel, in spite of being wide enough for substantial heavy goods vehicles – large lorries, anti-g-trains, building machinery – to wind their way through. He wonders why he lets Katze talk like that, without a shred of respect. It annoys him, and he reclaims his sense of self by clamping down on this emotion that is unworthy and un-Elite. _

"_You..." People. He would have used the word had it not felt so incredibly out of place. He draws a sharp breath. "Space. You need space."_

_Katze pulls the car up by the orphanage gate. Hunched over the steering wheel, he turns to look at Iason, not directly, just so he can see him from the corner of his eye while watching the gate, the street, his surroundings. "I'll call," he says, the rush of anger fizzled away - or buried where it can't break free, Iason muses._

"_I wonder what would happen," he carries on as if he hadn't heard. "If all of you were moved into new accommodation. We could create a whole new city out here, without restrictions. Purpose built. Large hives, with running water, and a solar power plant to supply it."_

_Katze huffs softly. "Is he dreaming too?"_

"_Who?"_

"_Raoul."_

"_We do not dream," Iason replies calmly, reaching for his shades that lie in the glovesbox. "We plan."_

xxx

Iason's household consists of his office suite, a penthouse in the most expensive skyscraper in Apatia, several apartments in areas of Tanagura where the rich and powerful congregate. It also includes his fleet of cars. Yet unlike most Elite, Iason hasn't bothered with house servants. Apart from a hired driver and a Personal Assistant – both of them Elite of less well-off background – Iason has no personnel. He eats out, he has few clothes because what he wears is determined by protocol and convention – many Elite use the clothes magazine that enables them to hire the most formal, most costly outfits. The secretary manages his diary commitments and arranges for the dry cleaning. The driver deals with Iason's small fleet of bullet proof limousines and flash sports cars. Iason has no private life. He goes to shows and dinners because that's where he's meeting his business associates, political allies and adversaries.

He has so little time to be in his own space that his apartments feel like exhibition halls for expensive art – holographic paintings, reproductions of Amoi and off-world classics in three dimensions; real statues made of white and black stone; cut glass and cast metal. Yet his office suite is bare of all this, dominated by the huge glass desk with its integrated computer terminal, near the panorama wall that opens sweeping views on Tanagura at his feet. There is nothing to tidy, or clean, not even dust that is filtered by the perfect air conditioning system that is part of Eos tower and all the other upmarket apartment blocks.

And so Iason shows a strange kind of frugality by shunning the usual display of mute, expensive, doll-like living flesh that other Elite keep whether they need servants or not. He doesn't need to compete at that level, he tells Raoul, who says that he's showing inverted snobbery. Raoul has a tiny smile on his beautiful lips and an oddly wistful expression in his green eyes as he visits Iason for the first time since Katze has moved in, but that changes when Katze steps into the room to ask where to get something to eat in this place.

"Please excuse me," Iason says to Raoul, who rises from the seat opposite Iason's at the glass desk.

"Is this a new acquisition?" Raoul asks, without even nodding at Katze. His green gaze is cool and blank as he seems to scan the redhead, slowly and thoroughly.

"Yes," Iason replies.

Raoul frowns. "I do not understand. Your own company is producing the most beautiful creations, and you bring home... this."

"It helps my research," Iason replies, his tone patient.

Raoul shakes his head. "People will be talking."

"Don't they always?"

"Perhaps you should not-" Raoul breaks off and pauses, then bows, quickly and deeply, and stays bent at the waist, his long hair shading his face. "I apologise," he says. "I should not have questioned you."

"I accept," Iason replies. "Please, it is not a reflection on your work. You should understand this."

Raoul straightens and nods, his eyes on Iason. "I am sorry," he says again. "Let me know if you need anything. It looks as if it could do with some time at the Academy."

xxx

It is new for Iason to share his time with someone else at such close quarters. He shows Katze a small room off the back hallway of the office suite; a white, neutral little box where images of the city can be projected on one wall to create the illusion of a panorama window. There is a tiny on-suite showerpod and toilet, and down the hallway is a kitchenette with a coffee machine, fridge and microwave that look as if they hadn't been used in a long time. They still smell new, of plastic and paint.

"This is yours," Iason says, watching the redhead. Katze's face shows nothing as he looks around.

The room has a double bed and a small desk, complete with a brand-new computer still in bubble-wrap; only half of the cables are connected to sockets above the desk. There is an office chair and a desk-lamp, a stack of white towels on the footend of the bed, two soft, high-collared white suits on hangers in an alcove by the bedside. Iason thinks that for someone coming from the slums, this would have to be palatial.

Katze folds his arms. From his shoulder dangles an old brown sportsbag with a few clothes, toothbrush and shaving kit, an old laptop and a collection of software and data files on holographic discs. It also holds Katze's most precious possession: the palm-sized converter that enables the outdated machine to read holographic discs.

"Make it your own," Iason says, to break the silence.

"Looks like a cell," Katze remarks dryly, his long fingers settling over the tracer cuff that dangles on his bony wrist.

"It has no bars."

"There's no window."

Iason nods at the computer. "That is your window. You will have access to my network."

xxx

"You will sit here." Iason taps one side of the large glass desk in the office. There is the chair opposite his own on which Raoul sat earlier.

Katze looks around. He has changed into the provided clothes and is in white, his hair a flaming contrast to the soft fabric. His expression is guarded. Everything around him seems to be white, the place drained of colour and warmth, until he glances at the glasswall that opens the view over the city. At the top of Eos tower, it is a sweeping panorama across the star of avenues, gleaming skyscrapers, and – in the distance – the dark belt of the slums and the yellow desert beyond.

"Feels like floating," Katze says, stepping to the window and pressing his forehead against the glass. "On top of the world."

"Yes," Iason replies, surprised to hear his own thoughts spoken like that, in that deep, slightly husky voice.

Katze chances a quick glance before staring out at the city again and at the dirty mass of Ceres beyond. Iason links his hands behind his back and looks across the teeming streets. "I have no time to explain everything, but you have already made yourself familiar with much of my system. I trust you will make good use of it." He doesn't specify what he means, and Katze doesn't ask. Iason is curious what he will do.

xxx

There is no rhythm to Iason's days, or nights. His diary is packed with council sessions, debates, business meetings and televised speeches. He accepts invitations to dinners and shows. Katze watches him appear on the newschannels in carefully scripted interviews and discussions. Sometimes that is all he sees of Iason for days.

Katze loiters about the office suite, where Iason also spends most of his scant spare time, usually to read, sign documents presented to him by his secretary, or research the electronic libraries of Tanagura. The suite is a microcosm where climate control, communication and service functions are separate from the centralised functions of the rest of Eos tower and Eos itself. It has its own lift that can stop at every level of the tower, unlike the public elevators. On their un-numbered displays appear only the names of the public levels. Others do not show, including Iason's top-security suite, the High Council's computing services, and the floors occupied by the central surveillance and intelligence service, the Defence Council and High Command of Elite SWAT units that had been crucial to put down the unrests at Dana Bahn. Katze, riding the lifts to get to the gardens, the fitness facilities or the library, only knows that the height of the building from the outside doesn't seem to match what he can see from the inside.

"There is wine in the cabinet," Iason says when he gets back late one evening and finds Katze crouched by the panorama window, the old laptop by his side. Katze gets up and slips away silently, to return a moment later with a bottle and a glass.

Iason takes off his stiff, pompous uniform. Underneath he wears a black silk tee that reveals enough of his muscular arms and the contours of his body to make Katze stare. Iason steps close and takes the bottle. "Get another glass," he orders quietly.

Katze stares at his hand with the bottle. Iason is still wearing his gloves, the white leather a surreal contrast to the nakedness of his pale skin and the black silk of the shirt. "You may look at me," he says, wanting to see in those yellow eyes what Katze is hiding in his mind. He watches the redhead tense, and then Katze's gaze flicks up to meet Iason's gaze. They are cool, observant, Katze's face carefully blank, and Iason feels a twinge of disappointment.

"The Code says-"

"You can relax here," Iason cuts in, turns away and gets a second glass. He sets it on the desk and opens the bottle to fill both his and Katze's glass.

"You're not good with your own rules," remarks Katze, and Iason wonders whether this is more than the statement of a fact.

"There are fewer rules than most people want to believe," he says. "Jupiter's laws tend to have purpose."

"And who's been filling in the rest?"

Iason raises his drink. Katze doesn't seem to be sure, turning the stem of his glass between his long, thin fingers. He is asking questions, Iason thinks, that nobody ever asked in Eos, in the heart of the power that rules Amoi. He either isn't aware that he is challenging Iason, or he is calculating – or suicidal – enough to play this game. Iason feels the tingling of something fresh, hot, trickle into his mind. He is enjoying this, and he is enjoying watching Katze. The unusual colours intrigue him, the harsh beauty of angular lines, the perfection of sparse movement. He thinks that nothing Raoul has produced has ever been this exciting, but it is not the looks that make it so...

No risk, he thinks, no gain. "The rest is interpretation," he says. "This is good wine. Shipped in from off-world, a planet called Earth. One day, we'll grow wine on Amoi. We will irrigate the desert, all that unused space out there. We will make it green, and there will be domes of glass where we can grow food crops and regulate the climate."

Katze seems unimpressed, and Iason is puzzled. "Aren't you interested?"

Katze takes a sip from his drink, his eyes turning back to the glasswall. "Sure," he says. "I tried to get into the library. They won't let me in there."

"It's regulated," Iason replies, letting go of his dream. "I have to apply for access for you." Raoul is right, he muses, a little deflated but not hurt; they do not have the capacity to share visions. They will remain what they are...

Katze flushes but says nothing. Iason sits down at his desk and clicks himself into the computer system that spans Eos like a neural web. He calls up a few menus, enters a sequence of keys and commands, then turns to Katze who just stands there, drinking slowly. "You should be able to use the library as of midday tomorrow."

"They won't serve me anywhere here," Katze says, his fingers tightening around the glass. "Bars, restaurants – I'd never thought that there'd be Elite behind the counter. Some of you lot actually work."

"Why not?" Iason rises and steps closer, joining him. "Some jobs are suitable for Elite. It would be inappropriate for non-Elite to serve at upmarket facilities. There would be too much to understand; they could not provide quality service." He can smell Katze's scent – no longer the dank reek of poverty but the aroma of clean skin and fresh soap. It is a warm scent, radiating more strongly from Katze's hair, and when Katze shifts, Iason finds that he is entirely too close, Katze's hair almost brushing his face.

Iason sways back. For a moment, they stare at each other in silence, Katze pale, Iason feeling startled at what runs through him then – a jolt of breathless curiosity, tearing at him with sudden, energetic clarity. He takes a deep drag from his glass. "It smells of smoke in here," he notes, his voice not quite as smooth as usual.

"I've run out of fags. Can you get me some?"

xxx

To manage Iason's household looks simple enough. Because Elite do not serve non-Elite, and there are no facilities for non-Elite at Eos, Iason sets up an authorised account for Katze that he can use to order supplies for his personal needs; the stuff is delivered to Iason's secretary where Katze can collect it. The two Elite – the driver and the secretary – keep a frosty distance, but soon Katze realises that the files to which he has been given access are not only dealing with Iason's everyday needs but with certain parts of his commercial interests. Iason watches him learn, intrigued by the Katze's approach that is both systematic and tenacious, with a creative touch where he can't figure out what he is looking at. Iason answers his questions, and from the way they develop, he knows that Katze understands that Iason and Raoul are in command of a web of firms and businesses, banks, stocks, equity and other concerns that is as smooth on the surface as it is mulitlayered below.

It is also covering Iason's hidden hobby, his personal penchant for collecting strange things, his trade in the unusual. His merchandise are inventory items, young men indentured by their guardians, their contracts sold by their owners, or offering themselves into service in the hope of escaping a life in the slums. Yet Iason rarely buys from licenced traders, and never from the Academy, where Dr Raoul Am is creating the most perfect bodies inhabited by the most empty minds.

Sometimes, after a night out, Iason stays a night at a penthouse he owns in a glossy skyscraper in Midas, near the pleasure quarters of Tanagura, but Katze doesn't like the place. It is full of kept men and women, belonging to wealthy Elite. It is also where he keeps his newest purchases, but they never stay long. Iason takes Katze along when he visits his acquisitions – once or twice, to study them or to watch them perform at an erotic show – before selling them on. He is shrewd, rarely sustaining losses, and he has a taste for taking risks. Iason's preferences are exotic, chosing dark over fair, or picking items with uncertain origins – a gamble that, most times, pays off.

Midas and Apathia are different from Eos, the mix of boundless affluence and desperate need more apparent, the tendrils of lack creeping in with the armies of workers that stream into the area every day to clean, wash cars, sweep pavements, cook and serve food. Here, all services are carried out by non-Elite. Apathia consists of glossy high-rises, penthouses with roofgardens and swimming pools, and tree-lined alleys wide enough for the luxury cars of the super-wealthy. The bright summer sun is filtered through the lush greenery, and tempered into a sun-dappled green light that seems to suffuse most of the area. Midas though is loud, waking up when dark falls, its bars and stages lit in glaring neon colours, and its red, pulsing rhythm colours the sky from dusk to dawn.

This is where worlds overlap, thinks Iason, watching the queues of expensive cars in front of the luxury establishments and the queues of non-Elite at the backdoors. And behind the gleaming facades of the pleasure quarters, thinly covered by the glistening skin of neon-gloss, lie backstreets that seemed to belong to Ceres or HerBay. Too close, thinks Iason, to Eos. It is a rift in his ideal world, the vision of Amoi as computed by Jupiter, and he deeply dislikes it.

He takes Katze with him, observing the mix of curiosity and disgust that shows on the redhead's face, in his posture as he is following Iason because he isn't allowed to fall in step beside an Elite, and when he is made to wait outside places where non-Elite aren't allowed in. Yet Iason finds his thoughts drift when he sits watching a show, courtesy of a business acquaintance's invitation, or has dinner with a handful of councillors at an expensive restaurant, and occasionally he casts a glance at the tracker he wears like a watch. Katze is wandering around, he notes, and it unsettles him more than the similarity between the tracker and the tracer cuff.

xxx

"You are upset?" he asks when they return to the apartment in Apatia one evening. The place is empty, Iason's latest purchase sold on in the few hours before, during a social dinner at a club that has its own facilities for the live property Elite bring along. This time, Iason has not left Katze outside, in the streets but has taken him there to wait, along with half a dozen other young men, in a large, plain room with vending machines for soft drinks and snacks, a widescreen television, a few comfortable sofas and a bathroom. There are steel grids against the two windows that give out onto a service yard behind the building, and in the four corners of the ceiling blink the red eyes of cameras. There is no fire escape. The only way out is through the reception where the owners of the young men have signed them in, and will have to sign them out to get them back.

The apartment still smells faintly of the scent the young man had preferred, an expensive, flowery perfume. Katze had been in the back of Iason's limousine with him, their seats screened off from Iason's place by a glass partition, but they had not been talking, preferring to sit as far apart as possible, in sullen silence. The young man – short, slim, his dark eyes a striking contrast to his blond hair – had been staring out of the window the entire journey, and while they were waiting at the club, he was watching a live transmission of the erotic show running on the club's stage – toys coupling in a carefully scripted sequence, almost a dance. Iason had signed them both in, but only collected Katze after the meal, not even sparing a glance for the young man.

Since bringing the redhead to live in Eos, Iason thinks that the distance between them has grown. He finds that it is not what he wants, and this strikes him as strange.

Katze shrugs. "Do you want coffee?"

"Can you not answer my question?"

Katze wipes his hands at the sides of his white suit, as if looking for pockets, but none of the clothes prescribed for live property in Eos have pockets. "I'm not upset," he says, sounding unwilling.

Iason steps close. "Have you been watching?"

"The show?" Katze shakes his head. "It's boring. They're all boring."

Iason feels a flash of heat zap through him. "Why?" he demands quietly. He can feel warmth radiating from Katze. "How could they become more entertaining?"

Katze meets his eyes, and for a moment, they just look at each other, almost chest to chest, Iason only slightly taller than Katze who has tilted his chin up a little.

"I don't know," he says at last. "I have no idea how you tick up here." He taps his temple. "Are we staying here tonight?"

xxx

On to chapter 6.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Warnings and disclaimer from chapter 1 apply to this one too.**

xxx

_Iason has paid his visit to the orphanage to talk business and – unwilling to return so soon into the shiny confines of Eos – decided to turn in at his apartment in Apathia. He is surprised when Katze shows up in the small hours of the night, looking tired and unusually peaceful. They have coffee together, then Iason showers. When he is done, he settles on the large leather couch opposite the French doors that lead to the penthouse's terrace. It is a corner view, dominated by the red glow of Midas, only a few streets away. _

"_When did it happen?" Iason asks, watching Katze's sharp, angular profile against the shimmering backdrop of the city at night. Cigarette smoke clouds around Katze's head and curls from the glowing tip of the fag in the corner of his mouth. He is sitting cross-legged by the doors, his laptop balanced on his knees while he is typing – one-finger-speed-pecking fashion – with one hand, hacking onto the keys as if he wanted to punch them through the keyboard. _

"_What?" Katze grunts, a puff of smoke wafting from his nostrils._

"_When did you start feeling attracted to me?"_

_Katze looks irritated as he draws his brows together and narrows his eyes, staring at the screen for a moment before looking up at Iason. He thinks, his gaze locking with Iason's, and then a tiny smile curves his lips. "I don't know... perhaps when you offered me to use your name."_

"_Liar," Iason shoots back calmly._

"_Okay." Katze shifts the computer onto the floor. Ash crumbles onto his thighs. He brushes it off, smudging it. He grumbles a swearword. "I haven't got a clue. I just... it happened."_

"_It happened?"_

_Katze shrugs. "And you? When did you get the hots?"_

"_Hots..." Iason gives him a half-smile. "How common."_

_Katze gets up and steps close, bends to kiss him – a long, firm, smoke-flavoured kiss, and somehow during this he slides onto Iason's lap. Straddling him, Katze beds his head on Iason's shoulder and links his hands behind Iason's back. "I am common," he says, his voice humming against Iason's neck. _

_Iason strokes Katze's hunched back. "What was it you wanted?"_

"_Why do you always need a reason? Man, Iason."_

"_Because there is a reason for everything."_

"_So what? Why do you have to know?"_

"_Because it is my job to know."_

_There is a tiny silence before Katze gives up. "It's not that clear. Your looks, sure. You realise that, don't you? You all do." He settles back to study Iason's face. "You aren't like the rest. You aren't scared of the slums. You were asking questions. The stuff you bought... it was interesting to watch. Perhaps because you had the guts to bring me here, to Eos. Or to ask... I mean, you and me. An Elite – THE Elite – and me... You weren't even supposed to think that this could happen."_

_Iason's touch grows heavy until he clutches hard at Katze's waist. "I asked you to use my name, and you used it to satisfy yourself in the shower."_

_Katze's cheeks colour a little; the pain of Iason's grip feels as if his ribs were cracking. "I did not."_

_Iason leans in until they are almost nose to nose. "I saw you."_

xxx

It feels strange, Iason thinks when he arrives at the office suite to work into the night, to know someone is waiting there for him, even though he is not sure that this is what Katze does. The redhead doesn't talk much, but Iason watches him observe whilst taking care of Iason's modest needs – making coffee or pouring wine, ordering food in, tidying the bathroom and making the bed in the large bedroom adjacent to the office itself. Iason expects questions, having to explain, to show and coach, but Katze's questions are only about what is outside the confines of Iason's office suite that occupies the top floor of Eos tower.

"How do you find your work?" Iason asks one evening, pushing back his chair and reaching for the wine Katze offers him.

A thin smile passes over Katze's face. "What work?" A small pause, then, "I don't get it."

"What?" Iason catches himself enjoying this, and tries to imagine how it would be to sell Katze off.

"What do you want with me here?"

It is a question Iason has tried to avoid, but – with the words said – he is clearheaded enough to see the need for an answer, and at the back of his mind he has it ready. "I want you to familiarise yourself with my schedule. I need another driver."

"I got no licence."

Iason feels a twinge of irritation. "Then get one. It won't take long for you to pass the tests; I'll register you tomorrow."

"Iason."

Iason feels a tremor run through him as he hears his name, in Katze's quiet, raspy voice. It is different from how Raoul says it, and nobody else has the privilege to address Iason like that. Iason wonders whether Katze understands how great this breach of protocol is, and whether he should, could expect anything in return.

What would this be? he muses.

Katze steps closer and sets the bottle on the table. "How was your day?"

Iason is seated, Katze on his feet. He is looking down at Iason.

"Appearances matter," Iason says softly. "You should sit."

Katze folds into a crouch reminds Iason of a loaded spring, and glances up. "Happy?"

Happy, Iason thinks, what a strange concept. "Talk to me," he says.

Katze shrugs. "Nothing to tell. It's boring me to tears, being here. There's nothing to do. I've been to the library, sure, but the sections that look interesting are blocked for non-Elite. There's a lot of junk, magazines for toys, that sort of stuff."

"What is it you want?"

"I'd like to know how Jupiter ticks. And you, this whole setup."

Iason drinks, then hands his glass to Katze, watching the surprise in his eyes as he takes the glass. For a moment, Iason's hair touches Katze's fingers, and the redhead swallows hard, then his lips touch the rim of the glass where a red droplet still hangs.

Iason feels himself grow warm, and it stuns him. Impossible, he thinks, this is impossible...

There is something like worship in the way Katze cups the glass with both hands and drains it, then wipes his lips and shudders. "Man, that's heavy stuff," he murmurs.

"Why do you want to know these things?"

"Why, why... why are you asking all the time why?" Katze says, his words a little slurred.

Iason leans forward, and breathes in the spicy scent of Katze's hair. He thinks that he is missing something, some kind of connection, and that all his questions have not brought him any closer to whatever it is that is troubling him.

No, not troubling, he corrects his thoughts, just challenging, like any unsolved question.

Katze sways a little. "I gotta-" He tries to get up.

Unthinkingly, Iason lays his hand on Katze's hair. Even through the leather of his glove, he can feel the warmth radiating from the redhead.

And he can feel it pour into him like a river, a stream, a torrent that fills him until he thinks there is nothing else, he is dissolving in a single, small touch.

xxx

Katze settles for what he's given – unhindered access to Iason's office suite at the top of Eos tower, his own room, his own account, a terminal and generous use of Iason's computer system. He wears the clothes Iason deems appropriate for a pretend-servant, and the cuff, clasped visibly around his left wrist. Iason starts introducing him as his new assistant.

There are whispers about Katze's looks – too tall, a little too old, his skin too pale, his hair too bright, almost like someone with Elite blood mixed in, which would put him onto the elimination list if it were confirmed. It doesn't bother him too much. Iason catches glimpses of Katze exploring, getting to know his new life by observing, quietly, in the shadows, and by following the trails of data he works with and some he's not supposed to see. Data tell him about people, and he knows how to interpret them to piece together entire lives. He knows how to weave bits of information into his talks with Iason – in the evenings, when Iason doesn't have a function to attend and chooses to unwind instead with a drink and Katze in the chair on the other side of the glass desk. Iason doesn't offer comments, but quietly extends Katze's access rights to the Eos computer network until he's able to go virtually almost everywhere.

Virtual freedom, Iason thinks, wondering what Katze will do with so much power and so little physical evidence to show for it.

xxx

Raoul, used to coming and going at will at Iason's office in between lectures on genetics, ethics and law at the Medical School of Tanagura's Elite university, his work at the Academy, and his commercial ventures, is radiating disapproval. Forceful and polished, he impersonates all that makes an accomplished Elite: perfect looks, a highly intelligent mind, honed manners and excellent diplomatic skills. Scientist, politician and Council member, businessman and entrepreneur, he is Iason's right hand and close advisor, political ally and business partner, his chosen mediator when things get difficult at the Council, and his trusted messenger to Jupiter. And for the first time in his life, Iason finds himself disagreeing with Raoul.

It is, he muses, a not unpleasant experience.

xxx

Katze brings him coffee that he's ordered. He sets the tray down. Iason's eyes are closed. He looks drawn. Katze lays his hands lightly on Iason's shoulders. A small shudder trembles through Iason but he doesn't move, or say anything.

Touch, he thinks, is that what has been missing all along?

He wonders about what he considers an animal instinct, the need it ignites in him, a need that is as ill-fitting for an Elite as it is unimaginable – something that belongs to Ceres, to the slums, into the dirt of that shameful part of Amoi. Resentful at Jupiter for allowing him to feel like that, Iason decides against holding Katze to account for his crime – one of many breaches of Jupiter's Code, the iron laws of etiquette and discipline that govern Eos.

Emboldened, Katze starts gently kneading Iason's muscles. Swathes of Iason's hair slide against his skin, warm and surprisingly thick. Iason lets go of a long, soft breath. "Don't stop," he murmurs, relaxing into Katze's grip.

Katze smiles. "I could wash your hair."

He can see the reflection of Iason's smile in the computer screen. "I don't need help."

"What's wrong with touching?" Katze asks, unsure what's pushing him.

"Nothing," Iason says, "but if it's like this, it would be hard to resist. The easiest way to abstain is to remain ignorant."

"I thought you were… I mean, you'd not want stuff like that."

Iason makes no reply.

"Where does that leave you?"

Iason shrugs. "I can handle myself."

"I wish you couldn't." The moment the words are out, the colour drains from Katze's face, and for the first time since Iason knows him, he looks worried.

Iason turns his head, then gets up to face the redhead. Katze, flushing and nervous, steps back. Iason reaches out to grab his wrist and hold him. He stoops a little so they are eye to eye. He can feel Katze's heat, his breathing. Katze shrinks back as if expecting a blow.

"I need to take a bath," Iason says.

He is so close, he can feel the touch of Katze's lips.

xxx

On to chapter 8.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Warnings and disclaimer from chapter 1 apply to this one too.**

"_Are you going to buy something new?" asks Katze. He is on his belly, his arms folded under his chin, his hair hanging messily into his face. He has no clothes on, and the tracer cuff sits on the nightstand by the side of his bed. Iason lies next to him, pressing close because the bed is wide for one but narrow for two. Propping himself up on his elbow, he leans on Katze heavily, breathing his scent. _

"_What if?" Iason asks quietly. He feels sated, deeply satisfied in body and mind. Complete, he thinks. _

"_You could ask the old bag for Daryl."_

"_Daryl... is he your friend?"_

"_I have no friends. You'd like him. He's quiet."_

"_Are you trying to influence my decision?"_

"_You don't have to listen."_

"_Why Daryl?"_

"_He's just about the right age for a house servant, looks a bit like one of Raoul's clones. And he never makes trouble. It would take the wind out of Raoul's sails."_

"_You know him well."_

_Katze shifts. Iason clamps down on him, bracketing him with one arm across his upper back, and pushes his knee between Katze's thighs. "Yes?"_

_Katze groans and stills. "Man, Iason. He was just a little kid when you showed up and I went to Eos."_

"_With me. You went with me."_

"_Sure. He was having a hard time. Probably still is."_

"_Are you feeling pity for him?"_

_Katze snorts. "You kidding?"_

_Iason touches his lips to Katze's neck and runs them over the whisperfine hairs that trail in a line down his nape, to fizzle out just between his shoulderblades. "Would you like him as a gift?"_

"_What would I do with him?"_

_There is a moment of silence, before Iason lets off and gets up. "You have no grace," he says crossly. "None of you. You are either fighting or broken. There is no balance."_

_Katze rolls onto his back and glances up at him with hooded eyes. Iason isn't fooled – he knows that the redhead marks every detail, every twitch of expression – and, expecting taunts or anger, doesn't bother hiding his annoyance. _

_Instead, Katze rises too and leans against him. Katze's hands settle on the small of Iason's back, and he rests his brow against Iason's shoulder. "Don't be like that," he murmurs, sounding oddly tired. "There's nothing left of me for anyone else."_

_It makes Iason warm inside to hear this, and Katze's deep, smoky voice trembles through him like a living thing. He presses him close, one hand sliding up Katze's spine, the other cupping the back of his head. Katze's hair smells of shampoo and freshly washed bedlinens, with a touch of smoke. "Good," Iason says, enjoying the senstion of complete contentment._

_xxx_

Iason makes Katze wait, a large towel draped over his arms, but does the rest himself. Steam fills the tiled room as he undresses without compunction and starts washing, fast and efficient, under the shower. When Katze hands him the towel, Iason sees that he is hot and covered in sweat. "Are you ill?"

Katze clasps his empty hands over his middle. "No."

Iason slings the towel around his waist and wrings out his hair that hangs in soggy clumps over his shoulders. "Won't you bathe?"

Katze clears his throat. "Later…"

"Why not now?" Iason sees him squirm and decides to say what crosses his mind just then, as if out of the blue. "I would like to watch." The moment the words are out, he knows he has been lying to himself, that his curiosity has morphed into something different that is brewing inside him. He has no name for it and finds it confusing, and confusion is something he does not want to feel.

Katze shoots him a glare. "I'm not… you said…"

It is un-Elite, Iason thinks, cross with himself, and oddly helpless, to ask a Nobody like Katze to comply when there should be orders and obedience. He draws a slow breath. "It is not a show. I am asking. I would like to see you unclothed." He can see Katze hesitate, and there is an odd twinge of disappointment. "You can decline," he adds, blandly. He thinks that this is a chance to test truth and faith, and lets it hang, handing the decision to Katze.

Katze half-turns away, but Iason can see his reflection in the mirror of the vanity unit, and stays stock-still as, slowly, Katze starts taking off his clothes. When he is bare, he covers his middle again with his hands. The blush is still there, the colour high in his face and fanning out over his neck and chest.

Iason says nothing. He tries to find a term, a box, a place for what he feels, and fails. Stepping on new territory, it crosses his mind, isn't that what we're meant to do? Isn't this the essence of science?

"Seen enough?" Katze quips edgily.

Iason smiles at him in the mirror. "Show me what you're hiding."

He can see sweat beading at Katze's temples, between his shoulderblades, at the top of the dip between his buttocks. He can smell Katze's scent, his skin and the aroma of his hair. It is sharp and smoky, with a touch of ash, as if Katze had never quite washed off the stink of the slums.

Looking flushed and edgy, Katze keeps his hands where they are, although Iason thinks that he is struggling with some issues of his own. And for the first time Iason admits to himself a desire to touch, without barriers. It flashes through him and melts into his bones, heating his flesh until he thinks it will evaporate his mind. He links his hands behind his back, hooking his fingers together, and leans closer until he can feel Katze's heat on his skin. "This isn't the first time someone sees you like this, is it?"

"So what?" Katze rasps, his breathing touching Iason's ear. "Does it matter?"

Iason thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Probably not."

"Okay then."

Unable to place what is happening, Iason pulls back. "I need a fresh suit for tonight's dinner. It's a private meeting."

Katze drops into a crouch, snags his clothes and presses them against his stomach. "Your driver has called in sick."

"Then find another one," Iason snaps, feeling robbed.

xxx

He is not happy to read the relief on Katze's face, no matter how much the redhead tries to blank his expression, and dresses in silence when Katze brings him his change of clothes.

"Raoul rang," he says blandly. "He said he heard that your chauffeur is off and sent a car and a driver for you."

"It would be rude to decline," Iason says, unwillingly.

"I thought you'd say that. I told him when you wanted to leave." Katze sets his old laptop on the floor by the panorama window and flicks the thing on. It takes a while before the screen flickers to life. He settles there, crosslegged, and lights up. The pale shimmer of the computer screen and the lights of the city below are soaking the office in dusk. Hunched over the laptop, Katze is puffing the room blue. He is flicking the mouse around to zap flies that pop up on the screen at random intervals. The more he catches, the more turn up. If they stay around for long enough to leave 'droppings' he's losing points. If the screen turns dark with flies and droppings, the computer wins.

Iason doesn't feel like going anywhere. He'd rather wrench around in Katze's thoughts, bend them to his will and make them safe, centred around Iason like planets around their star, and he does not want to think about why he wants this so much that it steals his sleep and his focus.

Katze is engrossed, a frown of concentration between his eyebrows, when Iason tosses the tracer cuff at him. Katze catches it by instinct. In an instant, he's missed a congregation of flies. Iason watches him trying frantically to catch up, but the blinking of the cuff in his lap is distracting him, and he can't keep up. Swearing, he has one more go but it's over, he's lost. A long stalk of ash falls off his cigarette and drips onto the polished floor.

Iason, dressed in the evening version of his formal suit of office, tugs on his gloves. "I might call you later. Don't miss it."

xxx

Iason does not call. He returns to his suite in the small hours, throws his coat over the back of his chair and habitually checks his computer for messages. He has not expected to find Katze waiting, yet he cannot help the hollow feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

_You could have proven me wrong, _he muses, half-cross with himself for even thinking this. He goes into his bedroom to undress – and sees, on the small table by his bedside, an unopened bottle of red wine and two glasses, the full ashtray and a scribbled note wedged underneath.

_Killed 47,586 flies on that machine You know how hard that is? Hope your night was more interesting than mine. _

Iason smiles, the hollow sensation fading as he uncorks the bottle and fills his glass. He settles on the edge of the wide bed, the coolness of the climatised room making his skin tingle. Through the open door he can see the dusky orange glow of the nightsky over Tanagura, the thin crescents of the twin moons rising above the light-littered skyline, and he lets himself drift in a rare moment of relaxation.

A small sound scrapes over the edge of his consciousness. It is so faint that he wonders whether he has misheard, and for a few moments, he listens into the stillness of his work apartment.

Iason rises and puts on the blue silk robe that reaches to his feet. Tying the belt, he wanders into the office. He can hear running water, the sound leading him down the short corridor to Katze's room. He enters without knocking.

The door to the on-suite bathroom stands slightly ajar, a strip of yellow light falling into the dark space. Cautiously, Iason walks across and leans against the doorframe to peer through the gap. He finds it strangely exciting to spy like that, in his own apartment, on what is considered his property.

Katze is slouching against the showerscreen, water sloshing over his pale limbs, dripping from his hair and chin. He's thrown his head back and clutches a white, soaked towel against his belly. His other hand is busy between his legs. A chill wafts from the shower, and Katze's lips are blue-pink, his mouth open in a soundless gasp. He looks rapt, and suddenly his hips jerk forward and he keens as he fills his hand. Shuddering he sags into a crouch against the glass.

Still breathless, he reaches up to turn off the water before glancing at his trembling hand. He groans. Slowly he unfolds to sit spreadeagled on the cold tiles. For a few heartbeats, he is still, spent, his eyes heavylidded, his mouth slack. And then he raises his stained hand and smears it across his face, down his throat, chest and belly. He mutters under his breath as he claws into the towel and scrubs it across his groin in lazy circles.

It makes Iason sweat when he understands at last what Katze is chanting.

_Iason._

_Iason._

_Iason..._

xxx

On to chapter 8


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Warnings and disclaimer from chapter 1 apply to this one too.  
Thanks to all of you who reviewed on- and offline!**

xxx

"_Good?" Katze grumbles, without trying to wrest from Iason's grip. "Do you have to be like that? You know, paranoid?"_

"_Watchful," Iason corrects. "Just that." He draws a deep, slow breath and thinks he can almost feel Katze's heart thud against his. Muscle, fibre, nerves, a mass of chemistry and a touch of electric wonder, Iason thinks, how is it possible for this to hurt? Katze smells of loneliness, and Iason, surprised and put out, senses the resonance of his own troubles within. He touches his lips to Katze's temple. Over Katze's shoulder, he can see the dull blinking of the tracer cuff on the nightstand, half-covered by his carelessly dropped shirt._

_He tightens his embrace. Katze doesn't struggle. And somehow, Iason thinks, this isn't right. "I don't have to buy anything," he says, his voice low and cool in the dusky room. "If you don't want this."_

"_Your mates," Katze replies quietly, "they'd wonder, right?"_

_Iason can tell it's not this that makes him tense and fidgety. He feels something strange, a twinge in his chest that makes breathing harder and sends a chill down his back, but he asks anyway. "Are you afraid of being with me?" _

_Katze glances up at him in silence, then slowly shakes his head. "Me? I'm not afraid of anything."_

_Iason settles his hands on Katze's hips. "Bigmouth," he murmurs._

_Katze gives him a half-smile. "Raoul is." _

"_I think he's more afraid of you than me."_

_Katze puts his head against Iason's shoulder, and for a moment they stay like this. "Weird," Katze says on a slow exhale. "What's he got to be scared of?"_

xxx

Startled, Iason stays put. He thinks it's the best show he's ever seen. The attempt at discretion, conscious or not, disturbed only by his arrival. It contrasts with the displays he's used to and that have long ceased to arouse him. Boring at best, disgusting at worst, he's lost interest in them, and not even Raul's perfect specimen have changed that.

It's been different that evening, and Iason has no illusions about the reason. He is curious about what the redhead feels, and considers briefly whether it wouldn't be better to firm up their arrangement. To keep things clear, he muses, for no other reason, even though he feels like sagging into a turbulence every time other options jump into his mind. What if...

He shakes his head, a small, unwilling gesture, and decides to put the idea aside for later examination when Katze turns the water off.

For a moment, the redhead stays still, slouched against the glass partition of the shower, his head leaned back, eyes closed, water dripping from his hair onto his pale skin. Heavily, he raises his hand to squeeze the soggy strands out. The flush on his cheeks and chest is fading fast, and his skin is crawling with goosebumps.

Iason stares, fascinated. Katze pushes himself up with a groan, then bends over, hands propped against his thighs, head lolling. Every movement seems slack, unwilling, drained of energy. "Crap," he murmurs, sounding put out yet oddly satisfied. He drops the wet towel and kicks it lazily into a corner of the shower, before lurching out. He reaches for a fresh terrycloth, draped over the edge of the sink, and scrubs himself dry in long, slow strokes.

Iason holds his breath. He feels warm, on edge, and reluctant to leave.

Katze puts the towel back. Still naked, he makes for the door – and freezes when the light falls on Iason's dark shape and catches in his hair. For a few breathless heartbeats, they look at one another, before Katze's gaze slides away and he lowers his head. "I should get dressed," he says hoarsely.

Iason steps aside without a word. Katze slips past to get his clothes, thrown in a small pile on his unmade bed. Quickly, he pulls on the loose white suit – drawstring trousers and a soft tunic with a high neck – and gropes for his cigarettes. He finds them under his pillow.

"How does it feel?" Iason's voice drifts across the room.

Katze, hunched over the lighter and about to light up, hesitates. "What?" he asks over his shoulder.

"You touched yourself. As in the shows."

Katze stills. A long silence spreads between them, in the dusky room, suffused by the damp chill wafting from the bathroom and the smells of soap and stale smoke.

Iason steps closer. "You used my name while satisfying yourself."

Katze's shoulders tense a bit more. He looks cornered, Iason thinks, ready for fight or flight, and decides to keep pushing. "Did it help?"

"I guess I've been disrespectful," Katze says, his tone nervy. "I'm sorry."

"Won't you look at me?"

Katze glances up, his strange, slanted eyes reflecting the strip of light that falls into his room from the open bathroom door. "I'm sorry," he repeats, the words flat and dry, like dust in the desert.

Iason draws a deep, slow breath. "Show me." His tone is quiet but firm.

"What?"

Iason steps closer, holding up his hands. He is wearing house-gloves made of thin silk. Elite wear them to shield their hands, and he cannot remember a day without them. The only time he takes them off is to bathe or wash. "Go on," he says.

Katze swallows. "I... it's not allowed. We're not allowed to touch Elite, you know that."

"Or say our names," Iason adds softly, starting to tug off the left glove.

"Your good mate, he'd kill me."

The glove drops by Iason's feet. "Raoul?"

Katze pulls up his shoulders. "He hates my guts."

"We don't have that kind of emotion."

Katze gives him a thin smile. "Sure."

"The shows, they make you uncomfortable?"

"In a way," Katze shrugs uncertainly.

The second glove falls. Iason can feel the coolness of the room on his skin, and his blood soars. "What way?"

"I don't know how to explain this," Katze hedges. "They just do."

"They are meant to be enjoyable."

"Depends, right? Whether you're in the mood, that sort of stuff."

"Mood?"

Katze looks confused and a bit incredulous. "Being like, hot and bothered. Sweaty, itchy, wanting to get off. You never had this? C'mon, then why do you watch?"

Slowly, Iason shakes his head. "It is interesting. Is that what happens when you couple? Feeling... hot?"

Katze's breath hitches. "You mean, fuck, screw, make love?"

"Are they different things?"

A tiny break, Katze's expression veering towards laughter, but he sounds hesitant as he says, "Sort of."

Iason feels oddly put out. "Sort of? I gather it is less pleasant for some, in spite of you all having the same kind of anatomy."

Katze snorts softly. "Well, if you don't like it, it's not cool."

"I understand it provides relief. Why would you not like it?"

"It can hurt. Inside and out."

"Ah." Iason's bare hand seizes Katze's wrist before he can react.

Skin to skin, Iason thinks, skin to skin... "Touch," he says, and he barely recognises his voice now that is thick with unsaid things. "How does it feel?"

Katze loosely clenches his fingers. Sweat starts sheening his temples and beads above his upper lip, and his eyes are like liquid gold. "Hasn't anyone touched you before?"

Katze's hand is cold and a little damp. Iason slides his palm higher, over Katze's warm, silky wrist and inner arm, the soft crook of his elbow, the wiry tension of biceps and bony angles of shoulder and collarbone. He can see Katze's throat bob and traces it with his fingertips, and it is as if something had broken loose inside him, flooding him and taking him under. He struggles to come up for air, but when he touches Katze's mouth, and Katze's lips open slightly, Iason finally admits to himself that for the first time he can remember he wants to lose.

"Elite," he says tightly, "aren't supposed to... make this experience."

xxx

On to chapter 9 (soon).


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

xxx

**Hello - to all of you who read and kindly reviewed this story, my apologies for the delay in updating. I have finished the other story I was working on (a GW story, Ice on The Heart), and hope that I'll be able to finish this one soon. I find Iason's POV hard to sustain, but I'll try. LH.**

xxx

"_Almost twenty years," Raoul says, in his cool, even voice. He sits on Katze's chair and is talking to Iason's back. "Twenty years of sweating my way through exams, of cramming and sleepless nights, of research and hard work. You know it. This made me who I am. This is what made you, why we have been chosen."_

_Iason stands by the window, his hands linked behind him, his posture rigid. He is wearing his most formal suit of office. Beneath him, Eos looks dull in the rosy light of the rising dawn. He makes no reply._

_Raoul shakes his head, a tiny frown of irritation on his forehead as he rises and smoothes out his formal tunic. "I wish you would be less headstrong."_

"_Determination." Iason turns, meeting his gaze unsmilingly. "That is what got me here."_

_xxx_

_Katze steps in the moment the door slides shut behind Raoul. He holds a steaming mug out to Iason. "Coffee?"_

_Iason takes the hot drink. _

"_Is he saying he should be in my place?" Katze asks._

"_He is saying he won't be compared, let alone displaced. He's accepted that I won't sell you."_

"_Unless big momma tells you?"_

_Iason steps close and leans in as he hands the mug back to Katze. He grips Katze's wrist, and his lips touch Katze's ear. "It's personal," Iason murmurs. "And I'm not telling."_

_xxx_

Katze looks on edge as Iason runs first his fingertips, then his palm, over his bare arm. A small breath shudders from Iason's lips. He slides his hand into Katze's hair, combs through the messy strands, then trails off. Iason turns his back to Katze and takes off his coat. Katze is quick to catch it and drape it neatly over the hanger. The office suite is really a penthouse, topped by the peak of Eos tower, and the pyramid ceiling of elegant carbon trusses and photosensitive glass gives it a surreal air. It contrasts oddly with the mundane – the corridor that leads to Katze's room and the kitchenette he uses but that also serves the few visitors Iason has up here; the large bedroom to the other side of the office, with its walk-in closet and expansive bathroom. The only luxury though is the space afforded to Iason; the interior is spartan – stark white and grey, steel, glass, diffuse light, a mirrored wall in the bathroom. The closet is nearly empty, containing a couple of soft suits like Katze's but black, and Iason's office garments. Each is prescribed by tradition and heavy with meaning, status symbols that make their wearer appear taller, wider but at the same time weighing him down and draining him of individuality. Even at the top of Eos tower, Iason remains firmly welded to the pyramid beneath him.

Iason steps to the panorama wall and looks down on the darkening streets of Eos. He folds his arms and just stands there, in silence, watching the shimmering bands of traffic, red and gold, weaving through the thickening dusk.

Katze settles on the edge of the desk and lights up.

"This," Iason says at last, "we must not feel." He is talking at the glass and through his own image that is reflected in the smooth surface. His expression is concentrated, matching his tone, as if he is about to solve a tricky political setup.

Katze says nothing. Iason's shoulders rise and fall slowly. Drawing a deep breath, he turns to meet Katze's eyes. Slightly drooping lids shading deep amber irises, smoke swirling lazily around sharp pale features. Katze waves the wisps away. Iason's gaze has a strange edge, something he hasn't let Katze see before. He knows he looks off-balance, and this time he doesn't try to hide it. It is a first for Iason, but if he is sliding, he is also controlling it.

"Katze." The name tastes strange. Scratchy. "Why did you agree to come here?"

Katze shrugs, sweat beading on his upper lip. Iason watches, warm, sticky emptiness pulsing through him. It is, he thinks, as if things had flipped, taking on a completely new meaning. As if a veil had dropped, and suddenly everything had become clear and raw at a stroke. Iason knows that the balance of power is shifting between them, and he is curious. Not afraid, it drifts through his mind, not like Raoul who is scared... of too many things, of what he doesn't want to know, of life and of dying.

_Afraid? Why should I be? And how close is too close?_

"You asked me," Katze says, and Iason wonders whether he is trying to save himself from too much thinking. "I mean, you wouldn't take no for an answer. Besides," a wry smile tugs at Katze's thin lips, "you were right. I needed a chance to get out of there."

Iason steps closer. "I am... useful to you?"

"I'm trying to make myself useful, too," Katze offers hoarsely. It is not quite an answer, and Iason watches him with interest – the way he squirms, the half-smoked fag dangling from the corner of his mouth, and how he is trying to appear cool when he radiates nervous energy from every fibre of his body.

Katze settles one hand loosely over his crotch. It is a small, self-conscious gesture, and he is a fraction too late. There is a small pause, then Iason moves in, his body in perfect harmony, powerful, measured and self-assured, a big animal in motion. He is aware of the effect, and he is using it to bear down on Katze who looks away, perhaps scanning the glossy floor for something that might snag his attention, draw it away from Iason's presence.

"Your laws," Katze says into the sudden silence, "aren't that special. It's like in the slums, only here I'm at the bottom of the pile."

_And we all must get used to it,_ Iason thinks, _order and discipline, they are the foundations of our world; where would we be without it? We would all sink into chaos. Dana Bahn has been a warning. No, we cannot be without laws._

But he doesn't say it. He braces his hands to either side of Katze's thighs and leans forward. Sat on the desk, Katze is caught because getting up would be just as bad as staying put, a yielding of territory, an admission of defeat Katze seems unwilling to make – and it would push him against Iason's solid form.

Iason can see the tiny hairs on Katze's temple, and watches a shiver run through him. He imagines he can hear Katze's heartbeat in the pulse at his neck and smell the sharp aroma of clean skin and cheap cigarettes.

"Look at me," he says, his breathing touching Katze's skin. Iason can't tell whether he wants this to be or not, and he feels as if he'd climbed up Eos Tower and now he's balancing at the tip of the glass pyramid, looking down at his world that is holding its breath.

"It's not allowed," Katze grinds out.

"Come now." Iason draws in a deep breath and lets it go slowly, savouring this strange moment. Avoiding Iason's eyes, Katze stares into Iason's hair, the shimmer of light filtering through it, the line of silver that gleams off every strand.

"Say my name." Iason's tone shifts, drops, becomes almost a question, but he can feel his lips moving against Katze's skin now. It is damp and warm and tastes of salt.

"It's agains the rules," Katze replies, his voice hollow. "This is like having a mega-hangover, you know. Like getting hammered in the clubs, and all you know afterwards is how much your ass hurts." He shakes his head, his hair brushing over Iason's mouth. "It's okay for you, but nobody's gonna believe me if it comes out."

"It won't." Iason cups the back of Katze's neck, gently and boldly all the same.

He realises just how much he's hoped for this when Katze suddenly leans into his touch. There is no break, no hesitation; it is as if the redhead had waited for this to absolve him from all restraint.

It runs through Iason like a living flame. He can feel it connect, heat streaming through him from head to toe, tingling in every fingertip, and it shoots into his brain, making him dizzy with elation. It also pools down below, and he is suprised by the intensity of it. Different from the listless, pointless sensations that came from watching a good show, the reaction of his body is so prompt and forceful that it threatens to switch off his brain. Iason grasps for control, and finds it difficult.

"You look," he murmurs, pressing his lips into Katze's hair, "as if you wanted to jump off a rooftop."

Katze makes a strange sound, a gasp or a groan, Iason cannot tell, but it echoes through him in long, burning pulses. Katze grabs Iason's waist, and Iason moves towards him, taking the momentum from him. The redhead seems relieved. Perhaps, it drifts through the haze that consumes Iason's mind, it is better this way, with Katze less guilty of doing the unspeakable than Iason who knows, who isn't supposed to feel or do any of this.

"I watched you," Iason says breathlessly, Katze's warmth seeping into him through layers of clothes. "I heard you. I wondered... I want..." He sighs heavily and starts tugging off his jacket without stepping back, never letting go completely. He feels Katze moving against him and struggles with the tight wool, pent up energy rippling through him.

Katze pushes his bare fingertips under the hem of Iason's shirt. He yaps something Iason doesn't get, but he can feel his reason yield at last as he yanks up Katze's tunic, almost tearing it off him as he pulls it over his head, and takes Katze's face between his hands.

"Look. Look at me!" Iason orders, asks, pleads.

Katze's fingers clasp Iason's wrists, his short-bitten nails pressing jagged, pink half-moons into Iason's white skin. His body his tense, heaving, his breath comes in deep, fast gasps; his throat jumps as he swallows, and his lips are dry. "I... Ias... Iason..."

"Look!"

And when Katze's eyelids slide open, Iason sinks into liquid fire.

xxx

On to chapter 10

xxx


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

xxx

**All warnings from chapter 1 apply to this one too.**

xxx

"_Let us go out," Iason says into Katze's hair. It feels good, he thinks, to hold him like that, pliable, close, unshielded – or at least that's what it seems, and Iason likes this particular illusion. It is strange to him to know and not wanting to know, and he can sense the tension inside him like a cold current._

"_Out where?" Katze murmurs, his breathing warm against Iason's shoulder._

"_Anywhere. I'll cover up."_

_A small laugh, and Katze pulls back a little to glance at Iason. "You couldn't hide to save your life. You're too tall, too-"_

_Too Elite. Too Other._

"_I know," Iason says as he lets go of Katze. "Let's just pretend for a while._

_xxx_

_They drive through the night in silence, and soon they leave the city behind, Orange Road fading into nothing. The twin moons brighten the dark sky into a dusky purple, and high above, lonely in the night, shimmers the Star of Amoi. Below stretches the desert, drained of colour._

_Katze is behind the wheel. He has shut down the autopilot, and Iason sits next to him, not in the back as usual. Katze is smoking, filling the car with the stink of cheap cigarettes. Iason lays his hand on Katze's thigh, stroking lightly._

"_Dana Bahn," he says quietly as the dark mass of the old mining station rises from the pale desert landscape. _

"_I found this book," Katze says, ash dripping in showers of glowing and fading little flakes. "In the restricted section of the library. A handwritten paperbook."_

"_The Diary," Iason says._

"_You know it?"_

"_It was written by an inventory that had been trained as a bio-engineer. He decided to throw away what he had and side with the mob that perished at the station." Iason doesn't use It as Raoul does. There is, however small, an acknowledgement that - he thinks - won't go unnoticed. A gesture so minute, a less attentive mind would miss it. Not Katze._

"_I didn't know-"_

"_After Dana Bahn was resolved, Jupiter's Code was amended to prevent this kind of education. It is unsuitable for non-Elite and leads to trouble."_

_He knows he has hit a nerve because Katze makes no reply. The car hobbles on an air turbulence and rises to clear a heap of rubble. Roads are not needed anymore out here since hovercraft have become the transport of choice, and nobody has bothered repairing them. In the city – at least at Eos and the pleasure quarters – they are still a sign of prestige and a functioning urbanity. _

_Katze slides the side window open and tosses his spent cigarette butt out. It disappears like a dull shooting star._

"_He calls it the Siege," he says, his voice cool and quiet over the hum of the engine. "I didn't know you were starving them out down there."_

"_They were given an opportunity to surrender. We were patient."_

_Katze's grip is tight on the leather-covered wheel. "__In the slums," he says, keeping his eyes on the faded road, "you learn that there's two kinds of people – immediate enemies and potential ones. That's simple. It works in Eos too."_

"_But?"_

"_No but."_

"_Is it Raoul?"_

_Katze shrugs. "That's where stuff gets complicated. And you... you don't fit in anywhere."_

_The remark, offhand, an afterthought, cuts Iason to the quick. He thinks that maybe he's been too transparent, and that the kind of insight he notes in Katze is as dangerous as the knowledge now forbidden to non-Elite. He finds that he'd wished for Katze to acknowledge whatever they have. A chance, perhaps. Something positive at least. And he wonders whether Raoul has been right after all._

Xxx

Iason's wristphone hums, a persistent, distinctive sound, the frequency designed to bore into the most distracted mind.

_Not now, _he thinks, yanking the messy linens off the bed, throwing them on the floor. He lies down on the bare mattress and pulls Katze with him. His hands slide over Katze's body firmly, and he doesn't try to hide his hunger. "My name," he murmurs into Katze's kiss, "say it."

As in the shower, where he has watched Katze seek release while chanting and groaning...

"Iason," Katze grunts, clutching at Iason's biceps. "Iason..."

Iason rolls over, presses him onto his back and hovers over him, his hair shading Katze's face. "Let me," he demands, his voice tight with urgency.

Katze doesn't seem surprised, and he doesn't argue. Iason watches his eyes slide shut, lashes trembling, then open again, just a little as he leans in. Katze is still, his breathing barely there as Iason's lips touch his. There is no thunderclap, no storm of emotions. The moment is soft, like butterfly wings.

xxx

Katze knows enough about this business to keep a shred of control, if only to not get hurt. He is guiding deftly, until Iason wraps him into a crushing embrace to hold him still. Iason has no patience, and Katze bites his shoulder to stifle a gasp as they become one.

Fresh heat burns through Iason with a small delay, starting as a knot in his stomach and gaining in intensity as it spreads through him, until it hits him – the second he meets Katze's gaze that all but sears him.

They have trespassed.

Amoi is as it has always been.

Jupiter remains silent in her hall.

Yet everything has changed, for in this moment their crime makes them equal, and Iason – instead of being mortified – feels a blast of relief he's not known before as he lets himself go at last. They fall, they spin, and they are no longer gentle. Iason rips Katze's clothes open and Katze claws into Iason's hair; they bite and kiss and grunt, tearing at each other. It takes seconds, eternities, for them to get naked. Iason has been a keen and precise observer, and what he lacks in practice, he makes up for with passion, long suppressed and finally given a vent.

Lust swamps him as they crash into one another; and there is nothing submissive in the way Katze yanks him close to kiss him, deeper, harder, teeth clicking; they're bruising each other as they hurtle towards a feverish release. Katze's nails leave bloodshot halfmoons on Iason's flushed skin as they slam together once more, and relief comes in white, silent waves. Splinters of oblivion sink into Iason's mind as the fire brightens and subsides a little at last. They're melted together, frozen in time, flesh and skin and sweat, as their breathing evens out and their pulse slows, until Katze groans and sags.

Iason keeps caressing him, painting wet patterns on the redhead's pale belly. A faint dusting of copper, silky to Iason's touch, trails from Katze's groin up the shallow ridge to his navel and fizzles out just below his chest. A thick stainless steel ring pierces Katze's bellybutton. It looks incongruous on his spare, sinuous body. Iason runs his fingers over Katze's ribs, counting in the rhythm of his breathing. He feels the textures of skin and flesh as he brushes over one firm dusky nipple and on over the prominent collarbone, tracing the sweep of a bony shoulder and taut upper arm.

He wonders, puzzled, how this act could be worth the risk they've taken, and at the same time it's screaming at him how he could ever have lived without it. Base, animal instinct overwhelming reason and culture, it has suffused him with a kind of pulsing energy that is new to him. He feels fresh and elated, ready to take on whatever stands in his way. The thought that something of him is now buried in Katze makes Iason's blood hum, and instead of sating his curiosity, it has only been stoked. He wants to do this again and again, until he feels that he has rooted himself too deeply to be dislodged. An idea dawns on him, something as shocking as it is simple, and he locks it where he thinks Jupiter cannot find it – that perhaps he has found the flaw in Jupiter's scheme. He does not want to think further yet, not then.

Katze's breathing deepens. Iason can feel his pulse jump and hear his heart thumping.

It is better than the shows. It is better than anything Eos has to offer. And beneath the bliss of the moment, Iason starts to resent Jupiter, for having taken this from her most privileged, most gifted creations. A machine, it drifts through his mind, how is this possible? He resents the doubts that have crept into his mind, and the idea that he, the most powerful man on Amoi, cannot reveal what he has done with Katze. Custom, law and reason forbid it; he's separated deeply by position and origin from Katze, a gulf that cannot be bridged. And as if a spotlight had been thrown at it, he can see it all at once now, black and white, in sharp contrast, every connection, every reason, the strings that weave the stiff, unyielding web that forms the structure of his world. And the last detail, the one that makes him feel cold inside – that he, like all Elite, is missing something every non-Elite on Amoi has, and that he is sharing it with the lowest creations on the planet, the ones coming from Raoul's lab. Created by the plan of a machine, he isn't born free.

xxx

Iason's buzzer goes off again, and this time he pulls back to take the call. It is an invitation to a business dinner with Raoul and other Elite. It is unexpected and, he thinks, surprisingly unwelcome. Yet the rank and wealth of the Elite concerned would make it rude to refuse even for Iason. Without wasting time on resenting it, he rises and starts getting ready.

He can feel Katze watching him, and in the mirrored walls of the room he can watch in turn – a myriad reflections of Katze's wiry body, sprawled out amid messy sheets, baring himself in a way that to Iason looks provocative, shameless, disgusting and curiously, overwhelmingly alluring all the same.

He shrugs into his black, high-collared shirt and begins to close the buttons. "What do you feel?" he asks into the stillness, one of the many questions that drift through his mind.

Katze wriggles his foot, reaches for a corner of the sheet and pulls it a bit higher by gripping it with his toes – not enough to cover his modesty, Iason notes, more to keep his legs warm. "What do you mean?" He sounds hoarse, sluggish, in need of a cigarette.

"What do you feel for me?" Iason specifies coolly, smoothing out the shirt.

Katze lets his head loll back, staring at his image in the ceiling mirror. "Gratitude, I guess," he returns lazily.

Iason continues to dress. His formal clothes look imposing but to get the effect right they have to be worn properly, and putting them on is a complex, boring and fiddly task. Hidden ties and covered buttons, padding, hooks and ribbons to hold things exactly in their allocated place – he recalls the lessons all Elite have to take to learn how to dress properly. He could have had a dresser, a status symbol that most Elite covet, and a job that for some of the highest-ranking ones is done by blue or red Elite. But Iason dislikes the idea of someone knowing him so intimately. He thinks of how Katze drags on his clothes in the blink of an eye. The comparison strikes him as odd.

"Is that all?" he asks, turning to look at Katze directly.

Katze shuffles back so he can lean against the headboard of the bed, hands relaxed by his sides. "I like you," he says, a touch unwilling. "Looks and all that." A small break, and then he adds, "You know, there's no point wasting time on this. I mean, trying to like an ice block is pointless, right? So I'm trying to be realistic."

Iason, in spite of himself, feels annoyed and amused at the same time. He decides to push this a little further and perhaps make Katze squirm and bare more than his body. "I am an ice block?"

Katze blushes wildly. "I didn't say that," he replies cautiously, and suddenly alert.

"Yes, you did." Iason reaches for his coat of office and drapes it over his arm. He enjoys this game of putting Katze on edge to make him drop his act. "Do you find me attractive?" he asks, and the way he says it sounds blunt rather than vain. A plain, straightforward question, free of pretenses.

Katze's throat bobs, and the red on his cheeks deepens, but his answer is prompt and almost challenging. "Yes."

"Is that why you let me do this? Sleep with you?"

"No."

Iason strokes the folds of the coat. He isn't wearing gloves yet, not even house gloves, and enjoys the way the soft wool caresses his skin. "Then why?"

_Why are we not allowed this? Why do we comply?_

Katze shrugs. He drags the sheet up over his stomach, covering himself at last. His gaze breaks away, erring across the room, before dropping. "Because I wanted it too. I had this idiotic idea when you asked me to help you with Noram's books-"

"I found you interesting."

"Sure."

"From the first moment you pushed your way past that old man."

Katze bites his lip. He plucks at a fold of fabric.

"I want you to teach me," Iason says calmly.

Katze doesn't look up. "What?" he queries sullenly.

"This thing you call feeling. Teach me how to feel."

Katze glances up, a half-smile on his lips, his eyes searching, incredulous. "It's nothing you can teach, or learn."

"Everything can be learned."

Katze shakes his head. "Iason..."

"Try me," Iason demands. "Affection – how do you recognise it?"

Katze leans over the edge of the bed, gathers his clothes, and gets up to get dressed too. Iason counts six seconds before Katze turns back to him, clad in his white house suit. "It's about signals. You'd look for a word, tone of voice, a glance... and touch. Most of all, touch. Like breaching a barrier."

He runs his hand through his hair that flares like a copper halo around his face, and then he laughs and moves to leave the room, but Iason catches his hand.

"Like this?"

Katze tries to yank it back. Iason is prepared and holds fast, easily. Katze's fingers clench into a tight fist. "It doesn't work with Elite," he retorts crossly. "Look, I've got work, and you've got this meeting. I'll be here if you need me."

xxx

On to chapter 11.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

xxx

**All warnings from chapter 1 apply to this one too.**

xxx

"_How do you feel?" Iason enquires. It sounds analytical rather than compassionate the way he asks._

_Katze smiles vaguely. "What do you mean?"_

"_Can you not answer without trying to play this game with me?"_

"_I enjoy it."_

"_You should not."_

"_What's to lose?"_

"_Besides what you lost already?"_

"_I hate you."_

"_You should never have provoked Raoul."_

"_You shouldn't have made promises you didn't want to keep."_

"_You wanted to leave. You would not have survived."_

"_You gave me no chance."_

"_I knew the odds. Why can you not accept my support?"_

"_Because," Katze retorts in exasperation, "you are not my god."_

_A cold breeze drives yellow dust from the desert across the road. The verges are buried in sand, and a thick layer of it covers the broken surface. Iason walks a few long steps, his hair and coat buffeted by the wind. He gazes across to the dark mass of the old station. _

"_I should be," he says over his shoulder. "And you should know your place."_

"_Tell Riki that," Katze snaps._

"_I did," comes Iason's laconic reply. "It is a sign of intelligence to not just absorb knowledge, but to apply what you have learned. I believe that his capacity to do so is limited. Yours is not. I like challenges." _

"_Does he?"_

"_I doubt it. He is capable, but his mind is simple."_

"_But you're having fun anyway?"_

"_It will never be the same."_

_There is a small pause, before Katze says, "I'm cold."_

_Iason turns and closes in with a few long steps. He raises his hand to touch Katze's face, tracing its contours, brushing over his lips. "Then let's go. Let me warm you up."_

xxx

Katze is playing a shooter game on Iason's computer while smoking the room blue – something he can only do when Iason is out – when an incoming message bleeps at him. A long stalk of ash drops off the cigarette as Katze fires another volley at his enemy, a giant glob of fluorescent blubber. The blubber explodes, splashing runny green slime all over the screen.

Smirking, Katze jabs the stub into the saucer and wipes the ash off with his bare hand. A grey smudge sullies the polished glass. He clicks the message box.

_Join me. See link for directions. Iason._

xxx

Katze has no money for a taxi and no intention of asking a cabby to charge the fare to Iason's account because he would have to reveal that – at least on paper – he is someone's property. He would have to download the message to his wristcuff to prove that his owner was waiting for him because inventories and house servants are not allowed to take cabs unless ordered to. Instead he interprets Iason's request as permission to take Iason's second car, a sleek silver sports cabrio, an expensive brand even for the wealthy of Tanagura. Sitting in the garage below Eos tower, the car isn't alarmed. Eos is a safe place.

Katze sits back to take in the layout of the dashboard, finds the board computer and fiddles until he's managed to crack the code and programme the autopilot. The car starts up with a powerful roar and swings gently out of the parking bay. Soon, it's joining the busy main avenue towards Midas, and once out in the open, it snarls into top gear and shoots off.

xxx

Instead of the prescribed white suit, Katze is wearing jeans and a black rollneck jumper that hugs his slim shape and hides the ugly cuff around his left wrist. It's no use when he arrives at the expensive bar where Iason's told him to go. The valet takes the car but the doormen won't let him in unless he can ID himself. He has no choice but to bare the cuff so they can run a handscanner over it. Only then do they step aside to let him pass.

An usher – a redhaired Elite – takes him inside. The room is circular, with a round stage in the centre of the floor of coloured glass, lit from below like a huge wheelshaped cathedral window. Small spotlights dot the dark ceiling that is carried by sleek steel pillars . Opposite the large double doors of the entrance is a gleaming bar, and along the walls are round alcoves with leather seats and small tables. Each swims in its own pool of candlelight, and the air is heavy with perfume and heat. The barstaff and the waiters are Red Elite and the booths are occupied by Elite, all men, most of them golden-haired. Their faces seem strangely alike in their beautiful perfection, a hall of mirrors, endlessly reflecting the same features.

Iason looks splendid in his formal gear, his hair a fall of light down his back, a fancy white cloak draped over his broad shoulders. He interrupts his conversation with Raoul to glance at Katze. The usher retreats, and Katze remembers the rules. He bows deeply, to Iason first, then to Raoul. Instead of disapproving of Katze's appearance, Raoul doesn't even acknowledge him, gazing through him as if he wasn't there, to watch Iason.

Iason touches Katze's arm. "Come," he says, "sit. I thought you might enjoy the performances tonight. It's a showcase for some of Raoul's best creations."

Katze is looking for space on one of the couches in the alcove, but Iason gently tugs at his sleeve. "There," he says, nodding at a small cushion by his feet. He strokes Katze's arm, a soothing gesture as if to forestall any sign of refusal. "What would you like to drink?"

Raoul lightly tilts his head. "You can't feed it alcohol," he notes.

"Rules," Iason says irritably, still stroking Katze. "remind me what this one was for."

"No alcohol for inventories," Raoul says coolly, "to protect you and your property from damage. If it becomes intoxicated, your insurance cover for it is void and you ruin your reputation."

"His name is Katze. You know where I got him – don't you think he can cope with a drink?"

"Items sourced from the slums tend to be aggressive." A small break, then Raoul sighs. "It smells of cigarettes. It doesn't know how to dress appropriately. If you let me have it for a week, I will train it properly, free of charge for you."

"A generous offer. I will think about it." Iason clicks his fingers at a passing waiter, a beautiful Elite in a dark, sleek outfit that makes him a shadow among shadows. His hair shimmers like burnished copper in the soft light. Iason's gaze lingers for a moment, before he snaps, "Whisky for Professor Am. Just bring the bottle. The usual for me, and for him," he nods at Katze, "whatever soft drink he wants."

Katze declines, his voice flat, his expression blank though his cheeks are flushed. He is kneeling stiffly on the cushion, his hands clenched on his thighs. Raoul turns his attention to the stage that is equipped with four gleaming poles that reach up to the ceiling.

Music is drifting into the discreet din of voices. From the floor of the stage wells dry ice smoke, swirling and trailing down the edges of the podium, spreading across the glass tiles and filling the room with living colours. And when the stage brightens, lit softly from below, four young men rise from the fog, a fourfold reproduction of the same type – shoulderlong blond locks, slim build, well-muscled yet slender limbs. They don't wear any clothes.

Drinks are served, and Raoul turns to Iason with a smile. "What do you think?"

Iason's gloved hand stills on Katze's shoulder as he raises his glass. "Congratulations. They look perfect."

"Products of my enhanced replication programme," Raoul says. "It took four years to source, select and blend the genetic material to create them. I've eliminated a number of flaws: they're more placid than other lines, easier to train, disease-resistant and undemanding in terms of maintenance. And because they are sterile, there is no way that they can be pirated, unless you have the technical facilities for genetic replication."

"You managed to keep the whole programme quiet."

Raoul drinks from his whisky. "Until the patent was granted. Now it is showtime. I was hoping to exhibit at the next trade fair, with your consent of course. If you are happy for me to go ahead, I would make the appropriate arrangements." He gestures at the audience watching the performance. "Thank you for joining me tonight to greet some of our potential buyers. It helps endorsing the product. Now I would like to invite some more from the outer cities. I expect brisk trade, and we should be able to recoup our investment soon, with decent profits."

The young men on stage are showcasing their physiques by moving languidly against the poles. Katze is staring, looking uncomfortable.

"What do they cost?" Iason asks, swirling his iced vodka.

Raoul leans back. "Twice as much as the best of the conventional lines."

Iason raises his brows.

"I've assessed the market," Raoul continues, contentment in his tone, "and taken pre-orders for more copies than we could rear in the first batch. I could even have sold the experimental issue, but it would depress prices and I prefer to supply prime quality, without discounts. I am working on a fast-maturing strand now; it will go into production shortly."

"What have you done with the experiments?"

"They were terminated, as usual. We have to be careful to protect our standards." Raoul glances at the stage. "This is our greatest success so far. The advertising campaign will start tomorrow. We have deals with all major trade magazines, the glossies for upmarket Elite buyers, and select research publications with an interest in bioengineering. We will also broadcast some web and television clips. We will be promoting pair-sales to the buyers who can afford them, and I think we will be doing well."

Two of the young men are embracing, one sliding down against the other. As they unite, Katze breaks away to look around. The Elite are watching, some smiling vaguely into their drinks, others with unabashed curiosity. Iason is leaning comfortably into his corner of the booth. His hand with the glass rests in his lap. Katze swallows and looks away – only to meet Raoul's gaze. Clear and cold, Raoul's eyes nail Katze, who quickly lowers his head. He shuffles on the cushion to relieve his sore knees.

Iason lightly combs through Katze's hair. It slides through his fingers, and he feels a pang of need, shot through with frustration that he cannot, must not get distracted like this.

"Perhaps you would like to rest your back," he says quietly. Katze yields and leans against Iason's leg. He looks back at the stage where the other pair are swaying closer whilst the first two rise to resume their dancing.

It crosses Iason's mind that something is missing in this performance, but he can't figure out what because he wants to take his gloves off and dig his bare fingers into Katze's hair. He can feel the muscles of Katze's back with every small shift in position, and what he covers in his lap troubles him. The music has melted into a dense, low beat that pulses right through him.

"Iason," Raoul says, leaning forward a little.

Iason's hand slips away, reaches for the bottle of whisky to refill Raoul's glass. A sign of honour, or familiarity. He leaves this to Raoul to decide as he replies, "My friend?"

"Those four are the first perfect specimen from the new series. Light phenotype, limited edition. They are a gift. A sign of my appreciation. I have coded your owner's code into their genome."

Iason thinks they all look a bit like Raoul although much smaller, and from there his mind reels into dirty images of Katze and himself, mirrored in endless reflections... He takes a deep breath. "A very special gift. I am not sure I can accept this."

There is a tiny, uncomfortable pause before Raoul settles back. He doesn't look surprised. "The business is yours, too."

"I am only a silent partner."

Raoul shakes his head. "You are too modest."

Suddenly, Iason reaches out and squeezes Raoul's hand. "Modesty," he murmurs, a fine smile in the corners of his mouth, "would this not be a good thing?"

Raoul pulls back abruptly. For a moment, they look at each other, until Raoul casts his gaze down. "Forgive me," he says tersely.

Raising his glass, Iason gives a smoky laugh. "You have always been my conscience."

xxx

When the evenig draws to a close long after midnight and they are about to leave, Katze steps through the door first while Raoul and Iason wait for the usher to help them into their coats. Outside, Iason calls for him, and Katze turns, looking at him.

Raoul's backhand makes Katze's head snap back and sends him reeling. "Rules," Raoul says frostily, "exist to maintain order."

It is the first time he talks at Katze directly, but Iason understands. It is subtle, Iason thinks, because protocol forbids Raoul from arguing with Iason, but there is no rule stopping an Elite from disciplining someone like Katze.

Iason lays his hand on Raoul's arm. "It was a mistake, a little thoughtless perhaps. He will apologise."

This time, Raoul accepts his touch, turning to Iason to meet his gaze. "Small transgressions always grow. Temptation, insolence and disorder... an unfortunate and expensive chain."

"Yes," Iason agrees quietly, "it is. Tell me, do you believe that I am too soft?"

Raoul recognises the catch in Iason's question. "No," he says calmly, "I did not mean to criticise you." His reply is as layered as Iason's query.

A tiny smile plays over Iason's lips. "I appreciate your intentions." He intends to be duplistic and watches Raoul's reaction with interest.

Raoul's cheeks colour a pale pink. "Iason..."

"It was a pleasant evening. Thank you." Iason lets go of Raoul and turns to Katze. "Now I want to go home."

xxx

Back at the Tower, Katze goes to his room without a word. Iason fills a glass with wine from the bottle on his glassdesk and goes to the panorama window. Far below spread the streets of Eos, coloured by dawn, a shimmering star of tiny dots of light, radiating from Eos tower to the outer wall of the city. The main gate, with its searchlights that are mounted on a bridge above and finger the sky and the outer districts, the bloodred pleasure quarters of Midas, and the boiling, floodlit fog of the industrial complex at Mistral. Beyond lie the warrens of the slums, fading into the desert of the old mining area. He is trying to make out Dana Bahn, but mist blankets the desert.

Iason believes that he can read Katze now – disconcerted, fidgety, out of his depth. Katze's weapons – looks, posturing, aggression, expressions designed to intimidate and cow according to the code acted out in Ceres' streets – don't work here. Iason wonders why Katze didn't seem too upset about the blow, or the loss of autonomy he's experienced that night. It doesn't make sense to Iason; he misses logic and clarity, and it unsettles him in a way he can't place.

He distracts himself by recalling the business proposals Raoul has negotiated, contracts that will make him and Iason millions and justify the expense and research that has gone into their company's new line of live goods. Raoul offers prestige and luxury to his clientele, with a complementary line of unbranded goods that have small flaws and still sell at considerable prices. The traders they've met that evening, at one of the most expensive, discreet establishments Apathia has to offer, had been seasoned, tough and polite, all belonging to the class of redhaired Elite that dominate much of the trade and services on Amoi. It helps, Iason thinks irritably, to deal with people familiar with the rules. People content with who they were – redhaired traders, bluehaired soldiers, all there to serve Jupiter's best creation...

A reflection moves into his field of vision, a pale silhouette layered over the light-filled dawn of Eos, and Iason nearly drops his glass when he realises Katze is standing in the door to the room, without a stich of clothing on.

And Iason readily, eagerly slips from the height of his position into whatever it is that Katze has created for him.

xxx

On to chapter 12.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

xxx

**All warnings from chapter 1 apply to this one too.**

xxx

"_Why me?" Katze asks, almost an aside but not quite. He keeps busy scanning through a raft of electronic files. Iason stands by the panorama window of his office suite, his favourite place, offering views over Eos and beyond. _

_There is a small break before he says, "Why not?"_

_Katze shifts on his seat. "The way he is staring at you. Raoul."_

_Iason folds his arms. "No."_

"_He's jealous," Katze says lightly. "Blazing with it."_

_Iason stays silent._

"_And you're staring at him all the time," Katze pushes. The words hang between them, thickening the air. "Is that why? Because I look like an Elite?" Katze keeps pressing, never glancing up from his files._

_Iason lets go of a quick, sharp breath. "Look in the mirror," he says flatly. "Do you really think I'd confuse you with an Elite?"_

Xxx

Katze doesn't talk, and Iason can't think of anything to say. Instead, he does what he's longed to do since sitting in Raoul's show. Katze responds with abandon, and Iason tries to not lose himself even as every fibre of his mind wants to go into meltdown. When they're through, Katze rolls over onto his side to sleep. Iason can smell sweat and what they've just done, and discovers that he doesn't want to shower but enjoy the warmth that suffuses his belly. He pulls the sheets up, covering himself and Katze, and lies still, staring at the ceiling. He thinks he can feel things he's never known, and he does not understand what is happening. For the first time in his life, he has hit a boundary that frustrates his analytical power.

Iason refuses to be helpless. Instead of scaring him, it stokes his curiosity. He watches himself drift to awareness, and he is gripped by it. He knows there is no turning back unless he gives up his mind and his memories, to be erased along with everything that makes him Iason, and to unknow all that is coming to him now like a cool, broad current.

The knowledge of touch. The sensations that stir in his body.

The sudden, crushing grasp of loneliness.

Sweat is cooling on his skin. He draws a long, slow breath to ease the sudden pressure in his chest. It takes clout, it drifts through his mind, to cope with an imbalance of power as extreme as that between him and Katze. It is personal and fixed, immutable by Jupiter's laws. It gives him everything and took everything away from Katze the moment he stepped into Eos.

And yet, he thinks, there has to be a way to breach this last frontier and live...

Iason knows what he wants but he has no idea how to get it. He can't ask anyone what he should say or do with Katze to make him content.

Iason has never before felt so alone.

He has never before _felt_.

xxx

Iason meets Raoul for lunch the next day at a restaurant located near the top of Eos tower. The place is small and intimate because it only caters to top Elite officials and members of Amoi's Supreme Council. Iason has a permanent table that allows a sweeping view of Eos and Tanagura city. He gazes outside while Raoul talks about accounts and offshore finance, the need for fresh sources of research funding, and how he plans to improve his latest products.

Iason gazes across the shimmering city to the dark belt of the slums and the yellow haze of the desert beyond. It annoys him – the seething, grimy mass that defies his efforts to create perfection. The way it seems to dare him by having its own will, disrespecting his wisdom and that of Jupiter and the Council. The best minds of Amoi, he thinks crossly, should that not be enough to trust and let go, to understand and accept that there have to be sacrifices, efforts and obedience?

"Iason?"

He breaks away and meets Raoul's clear green gaze. "Yes, my friend." He would like to talk to Raoul, whom he has known since he can remember, but that is impossible. Iason has discovered another limit, one that hurts more than he had expected.

"I had a very favourable offer of investment," Roul says. "Capital for a place on the board of directors. The accountants are happy. Now I would like to put the proposal to our lawyers. I am not keen on enlarging the board, but our shares might benefit."

"You should push the research grant first," Iason answers, and he reads in Raoul's eyes that he's surprised him. That kind of money is approved by the whole Council, giving Iason enough reason to retain the last word even though his interest in the business is known.

Iason smiles. "How is the lobster?" He has ordered shellfish because he finds it interesting to watch Raoul trying to eat it without using his fingers as he will neither pull off his gloves nor soak them in sauce.

Raoul tugs at his collar as if to check that the starched table napkin is still tucked into it. A small, irritated gesture before he regains his perfect composure. "A bit overcooked. You know I do not like it. As you brought up research, why won't you let me analyse this inventory of yours? It might provide us with some interesting insights."

"What kind of insights?" Iason queries, starting to crack open the cooked lobster on his plate. He does it with the silver tools provided and without staining his gloves.

Raoul stares, but he keeps his answer concise. "How something without a trace of Elite genetics can develop a phenotype that shows all signs of a mixed imprint."

"Or that some might confuse with an Elite." Iason raises his fork and looks at him through the tines. "Why does this matter? I found him in the slums; he will always bear the signs. He lives and breathes them. They are all over his hide, and the way he thinks and behaves."

Raoul's lips turn down in disapproval. "Jupiter tells us that the only way to control the slums is to control access to procreation and knowledge. If there is a leak in our laboratories, or in the production lines, we have to close it. If someone is trying to create pirate imprints, we have to eliminate the culprits."

"But if his imprint is pure?"

Raoul shakes his head. "It cannot be."

"What? That an Elite should sell off surplus from a production line? Or that somebody might be running a reverse experiment, by placing a pure blood into the slums?" A touch of irony colours Iason's tone as he eats and talks.

Raoul turns white. "Sometimes I do not understand your kind of humour."

Iason pushes back his plate. "Why are we not able to eat with our fingers – lobster, perhaps? Why miss out? Why no carnal knowledge of each other? I wonder – who would we end up with, you and I?"

Raoul's cheeks turn pink. "You know the reasons," he replies stiffly, barely above his breath. "Please, Iason, we are not alone here."

"No. But I am not sure we – Elite – are above corruption." Iason raises his glass, swirling the amber wine in it before saluting Raoul. "Why do you need a laboratory if you could just touch and feel – hair, skin, hands perhaps?"

There is a tiny break, before alarm breaks Raouls' even expression. "You touched it?" he whispers.

For a moment, Iason allows himself to be amused, but he htinks that even Raoul's patience has limits, and that he cannot afford to antagonise him. He wonders whether it is wise to bare himself even more.

Raoul leans forward in his seat. "They are animals. Dirty, defective, with a pack instinct, thriving on aggression-"

"And smart," Iason throws in, relieved because the verbal salvo moves their conversation past that uncomfortably sticky point.

"Like rats," Raoul retorts. "But not enough. They should have learned their lesson after Dana Bahn."

"You use rats in your experiments. Are they not fascinating? I believe it is our duty to be guardians of science as much as order."

"Are you saying that you are conducting an experiment? Just how far will this go, Iason?" Raoul's face is flushed, and a strand of hair falls across his right cheek. It forms a sunny contrast to his skin and the clear green of his eyes. Iason thinks that Raoul looks beautiful, in a perfect, monotonous way, like one of the ancient terrestrial statues that adorn the central library of Eos tower. There is, Iason finds, an edge of brutality in this kind of beauty, something razorsharp and unyielding-

"Iason?"

"Have you ever touched something with your bare hands?"

"I do not wish to soil myself."

"Do I look impure to you?"

Raoul's throat bobs. Iason's tone is almost soft if not quite. The question is pointed, and Raoul escapes into a non-answer. "You know the law. You touch one of these... things, and you will be considered contaminated."

"You keep some of them at your research facility. Do you really think they cannot be clean?"

Raoul purses his lips. He glares at Iason, who gives him a thin smile. "I wonder," he says, leaning in so close that Raoul has to raise his chin ever so slightly to meet Iason's eyes. He cannot cast his gaze down, like an inventory – it would be demeaning for him and an insult to Iason who lightly brushes his gloved knuckles. "Why this concern?"

"Because we are partners," Raoul bursts out, shifting back.

"And if I go down, so do you?"

"It took us years to build our reputation and our business. It only takes moments to ruin it all!"

For a moment, they fall silent, eye to eye, so close, they can feel each other's breathing, before Iaosn sits back too, stretching his legs under the table. "You may tell the Council that I have listened and that I respect their views."

Raoul draws a deep breath. Iason finishes his drink and reaches for the bottle. Raoul is quicker, refilling Iason's glass. "The Council don't know that I am talking to you about this." He pours wine for himself, then seeks Iason's gaze. "I am sorry if I've overstepped my mark. It is concern for you that moves me."

Iason raises his glass. Viewed through the amber wine, Raoul's image is bathed in gold. Iason smiles. "I understand, my friend. You have my gratitude."

xxx

When Iason returns to his office suite, Katze is hunched over the computer keyboard. He is scrutinising some of Iason's business accounts, his expression focused and cool.

Iason leans down to trace the bruise left by Raoul's blow to Katze's cheek. The skin is swollen and bloodshot. "Look at me," he demands quietly.

Katze hesitates.

Iason wonders whether he is afraid now. "Come now," he insists patiently.

Katze takes his fingers off the keyboard and lifts his gaze.

It's the eyes, Iason thinks, those strange, deep yellow pupils that seem to see through everything and miss nothing. Old eyes in a young, still boyish face, giving away nothing.

"I could get killed for this," Katze notes dryly.

"Laws," Iason says dismissively, "rules… they can be changed if they don't make sense."

"What does your Council think about change? And Jupiter?" A small break, then, "And Raoul?"

"Some changes might take longer."

Katze gives him a wry smile. "I wish we could be somewhere else," he says. "Anywhere, just not Amoi."

"I can't simply leave everything. Give up my position, the business. I have responsibilities."

Katze shrugs. "Why not?"

"You would want me to do that?" Iason is surprised.

"That would be good."

Iason shakes his head. "I'd be nothing."

"You'd still be Iason."

xxx

On to chapter 13.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

xxx

**All warnings from chapter 1 apply to this one too**.

xxx

_Katze settles at his place and turns on the computer. "If Raoul knew-"_

"_He does." Iason looks across the shimmering body of his city to the darkness beyond. It holds a strange attraction, something that disturbs and excites him. The unknown, the risk of uncharted, dangerous territory..._

"_Really?"_

_Katze's deep, quiet voice draws Iason's gaze back to his own reflection in the glass, and to the fainter one of Katze, hunched over his laptop at Iason's desk._

"_It is too monstrous for him to acept." _

"_Are you really the only Elite screwing his... possessions?"_

"_It is unthinkable. The ultimate loss of control." A non-answer. Unsatisfied yet unwilling to think about it further, Iason turns away from the window to glance at Katze. "If you had one wish, what would it be?"_

_Katze's gaze fixed on the screen, he bites his lip before reaching for his cigarettes, the half-empty packet next to the keyboard. "I'd turn time back, to when I loved you."_

"_Why do you always want what you cannot have?"_

"_It's in our nature. Keeps us moving. You know how it feels."_

_Iason sits down opposite him. "Are you afraid of looking at me?"_

_Katze glances up at him, his eyes shaded by a long swath of copper hair falling over his stitched-up cheek. "I've never been afraid."_

"_Then is your affection that fragile?"_

_They stare at each other, Iason frosty, Katze gloomy, turning the unlit cigarette between his fingers. "I won't give you what you want," he says flatly. "Never again."_

_Iason leans forward. His hands, bare on the cool glass, clench. "I can buy anything."_

"_You can't."_

_Iason's face reddens. "Don't you think I could have someone else to warm my bed?" _

"_You know it's not the same."_

_Iason gets up abruptly, slamming his chair back. It scoots and crashes into the panorama window, then bounces back in a slow spin. The reverberations whisper through the thick glass. "You have no idea of the risks I took!"_

"_Mine were bigger." A shade of irony colours Katze's tone, just enough for Iason to detect. _

_It kindles a fresh wave of anger, but he clamps down on it. It's a game, he thinks, unpleasant, dangerous – the darkness has come to him, invited to share his life the moment he's brought Katze to Eos. He admires Raoul's sense of foreboding, but then he wonders whether it has been a self-fulfilling prophecy._

"_I could have lost everything," he says, "including my mind."_

_Katze's reply is prompt and laconic. "But you lost nothing. I did."_

"_You kept your life. Nobody breaks Jupiter's laws without consequence. Not even I am free to do as I please."_

"_Is that it? You couldn't stand it – me moving about, you stuck here, in your office, your uniform, your-"_

"_You cannot leave."_

_Katze's lips curve in a half-smile, distorted by the healing cut. "I get it."_

_xxx_

"Why aren't you happy?" Iason's question floats in the dusk of his study where he and Katze sit on the floor by the panorama window. Katze is smoking. A glass of wine stands near Iason. They are both unclothed, sweat sheening their bodies, Iason's hair like a wash of silver down his back.

Katze, his eyes half closed, leans against the cold glass. Far beneath the sheer drop of Eos tower shimmers the city of Tanagura, like an earth-bound reflection of the Star of Amoi. Beyond it lies the darkness of Ceres, and beyond Ceres is the desert of the old mines.

"I'm bored," Katze says, his voice husky with smoke.

"There's entertainment, if you want it," Iason says.

Katze shrugs. "Not my kind of thing. Besides, after what Raoul pulled off at the club..."

Iason draws a slow, deep breath. "There was nothing-"

"I know," Katze cuts in. "I know that." He swallows, his bony throat bobbing, and then turns to look at Iason. "It's all so... impossible. Do you realise that? Who you are... what I am, at least here... It can't work."

Iason drinks. The glass is empty as he sets it onto the shiny floor. "Nothing is impossible," he replies quietly, surprising himself. And then, "I can help you be someone. Here, in Eos."

xxx

The pressure is mounting. Iason works harder. Singleminded in his purpose, he is still able to keep track of his duties. And by the time his critics believe they have gathered enough support to confront him with their demands, he is lengths ahead of them. They want an enquiry into his personal affairs as far as they might influence his work. He tells them that welcomes the opportunity to cut off the rumours that, he says, undermine the dignity of the council. He puts a wallet with a series of holodisks onto his lectern in the assembly hall.

"These are data from my personal and business information systems," he says calmly. "I have made my computers available to the enquiry, and I am happy to answer any questions. As you know, over the course of my office, there have been several confidential investigations into the affairs of members of this council, brought on by application by other members, conducted according to the terms of the council, and carried out within the powers of my position. Under the terms of the enquiry, I have no choice but to lay these open too." He smiles amiably. "You will be aware that no motions of dismissal have been filed. This means that every one of you has been cleared of misconduct, so there should be no problem."

With that, he turns his back, leaving the disks sitting on the lectern. Raoul barely has time to step up and seize them before the first shouts of protest erupt.

Iason, walking down the corridor to the elevator, hears Raoul's voice rise over the wash of noise in an attempt to control the situation.

Iason keys in the code to his apartment, and the elevator doors slide open.

He looks at countless reflections of himself in the mirrored walls of the cabin as it slides up, and his lips curve in a thin smile.

_Now we will see._

xxx

It would be comforting, Iason thinks, if at night, when nobody is watching, when Katze presses close to him, the constraints of their world would disappear. It would offer some kind of balance, support his sense of justice. But it doesn't happen, no matter how much he tries to pretend. Katze doesn't pretend but Iason has learned to read him, and he watches the redhead withdraw whenever the glow of those few moments of intimacy are over. Their world is present whenever they sleep with one another because there never is a question about who would do what, and sometimes Iason thinks he can read in those strange eyes, in the soft smirk that tugs at Katze's pale lips, a challenge – reached your limits, have you? Dare you...

Iason tries to imagine himself in Katze's place, but it messes with his mind, and he snaps back from the knot of repulsion, curiosity and offense that hits him like a fist. _Enough, _he thinks, _that we've come that far. It has to be enough._

He doesn't quite convince himself. He wants more. He wants proof that is strong enough to provide the equivalent to the risk he has accepted, something of equal value. It doesn't occur to him that Katze living with him might be just that. Iason is restless, uncertain of his position in this game where previously everything was clear because he could own. He is offering Katze everything money can buy, and the shield of his position to make this possible. He is unsure what else there should be, and he concludes that there can be nothing else in their world that someone from Ceres, someone not born Elite, could wish for.

The thought doesn't settle him. And then he looks into the mirror one morning to shave, and starts because Katze's toothbrush isn't in its place, the glass tumbler on the vanity unit gone. Iason feels his heart take a frantic leap and his knees grow weak.

xxx

"I broke the damn glass, that's all," Katze says, propping himself onto his elbows in his messy bed. "I swept it up and put it in the bin. Man, Iason, sometimes you freak me out." He looks grumpy and sleepy. He is naked apart from the towel he has wrapped loosely around his waist, and on his nightstand sit a new tumbler and toothbrush. He swings his legs out of bed and gets up with a grunt. "I made coffee."

Iason, white and angry, steps close and grips Katze's shoulders to shake him lightly. "I don't want any coffee. I want-" He breaks off, pushing away, and returns to the bathroom to finish his shave. Crossly, he dabs at a cut across his cheek.

Katze steps in. The glass clinks onto the marble counter. And then his trim, wiry weight moulds against Iason's muscular back, and Katze's hands lock in front of Iason's stomach. "This is crazy," Katze says quietly. "You know that, right?"

Iason meets his eyes in the glass of the mirror, and for a long while, they are still like that, Katze's strange, dry warmth suffusing Iason until he feels, FEELS, alive again.

xxx

"Funny," Katze says as they sit together at the glass desk in Iason's office. Iason is dressed in his expansive uniform, Katze still in nothing but a towel. They drink coffee, Iason flicking through the messages on his palmtop, Katze watching him.

"What?"

"You're old."

Iason glances up at him, brows drawing together. "Really."

"Three times my age. I saw it on your access card, you let it lie around in the bedroom."

"It was in my pocket," Iason remarks dryly. "And we don't age like you do." Katze should at least act embarassed, he thinks, somewhat put out.

"No. You look pretty well preserved for your age." The words have barbs, but they're hidden in the even flow of Katze's voice that has levelled out to a cool, dark baritone since he's come to Eos.

"Your point?"

Katze smiles. "Why do you need an ID card anyway? His Excellency, Iason Mink, head of the Council of Tanagura. Everyone knows you, down to last mutt in Ceres"

"Because it's the law."

Katze waves dismissively. "Sure. Is it true that you led the Elite troops when they finished the rebels at the old station?"

There is a tiny break, before Iason answers. "I was Commander in Chief of the operation at Dana Bahn." His words are clipped and precise, drained of all expression. "Why are you asking?"

Katze shrugs, looking at him as if trying to read his features that have lost all expresson. Iason's gaze is blank, probing, and Katze breaks away, his eyes narrowing as he glances past Iason at the sky over the city. He gets up and touches the glass of the panorama window with his brow. "You told me to learn, so I learn. Why didn't you tell me when I showed you the diary?"

"You did not ask." Iason joins him to enjoy the broad view of the city that he never tires of – the star of avenues, glittering with lights, a stream of gold through the arteries of Tanagura, gleaming facades rising into the dark sky, converging in the soaring pyramid of Eos tower. A faint halo of smog, a thin layer of mist, the slim crescents of Amoi's two giant moons. High above, in the deep darkness of space, the Star of Amoi.

Iason leans against Katze's back and strokes his upper arms. "What is it? What do you want?"

In the reflection of the window, Katze's old eyes sink into Iason's gaze. He smiles a little. "Do you have to ask that?"

Iason waits. Katze gropes for his cigarettes – a habit he's dragged into Eos with him; he's tried to quit but hasn't managed – and lights up. "I like your eyes," he says through a mouthful of smoke. "The way you move. Your idiotic pride, and that you had the guts to bring me here… I like sleeping with you. It feels so... close, more than I've felt for anyone else. All that other stuff, it just gets in the way. I don't know, it sounds stupid." He pauses before adding quietly, "You... of all people... It's unreal."

"But?"

Katze swallows. Iason can see his adam's apple bob, his body tense as he flicks ash onto the glass desk. The way they treat me here…"

"No worse than you've been treated in Ceres," Iason says quietly.

Katze stares at him. "In Ceres I could fight it. I'm nobody here."

Iason raises his brows. "And you were somebody in the slums?"

Katze glares. "I used to run my own thing."

"As long as there was a chance you would be making a profit for the old man," Iason notes. "But your market value was falling. You were getting too smart for him."

"I make my own market value," Katze returns crossly, "but here I can't."

"Why not?"

Katze blows smoke from his nostrils. "I just need a break. This place... it's suffocating me."

A small tremor runs through Iason. "You knew it would be difficult."

"I didn't realise it would be this hard. It's driving me crazy. The way they look at me. That I can't even look back."

"How about me?"

Katze is silent, confusion flickering in his eyes as he gazes at Iason. "It's different," he says lamely.

Iason strokes Katze's back. "How?"

"I just want to go home," Katze squirms.

"Has this not become your home? Have I not made it so?"

Katze shakes his head. "What happens if it becomes obvious? When I'm too old, too – whatever, just not what Raoul thinks fit for you? He creeps me out. Sometimes I think he'd cut me open alive to see how I tick inside. Besides, I need something to go back to."

It is then that Iason realises, with a start, that Katze doesn't trust him. Not quite. Not completely. That 'going back' means he's never really arrived at Eos.

"Iason?"

Iason distracts Katze by stroking his arm, firmly, demanding, while something inside him shifts. From concern to query, from affection to manipulation, and he knows that it will be too late if, and when, Katze realises.

"What?" Iason murmurs.

"You promised," Katze tries again, and he can't help the shade of despair that creeps into his voice. "You said I could move freely."

Iason swallows hard. He never stops stroking, touching, breathing in Katze's scent, soaking up the warmth of his skin. He takes his time searching for the right words. "You made a promise, too. I cannot leave Eos at will, not like you. And I need you close."

Katze tenses. "It's not about running away. I don't want anyone else."

"What is it then? You are here, with me. Is that not enough?"

Katze pushes against Iason, and Iason lets go at last. "That means trust, doesn't it? Like in, you trust me that I won't run. That I come back. That it won't change how I feel for you."

Iason colours slightly. "You have learned things about me that not even Raoul knows," he says, his voice a tad coarse. "I have opened my life to you. I have opened myself. How is it that you still do not trust me?"

A tiny break, before Katze recovers enough to lean against Iason. "It's strange, you know..."

His voice is scratchy, nervous, and Iason thinks that Katze might be more than worried now. It gives him a strange, sad kind of satisfaction.

"What is it?" he asks quietly. "My money? My power? The comfort, the privilege?"

A soft snort. "I don't need this kind of comfort, and I can't see the privilege of being a piece of furniture. I have money. I have my own power. I'm not afraid of the slums, they're afraid of me."

"So much confidence..."

"Why not?"

They are silent for a few heartbeats, until Iason says, "I will extend your access privileges. You will be able to move freely wherever you wish, inside and out of Eos. I won't expect you to report back here if you don't feel inclined to do so. There is just one condition."

Katze is very still. Iason's fingertips slide over the contours of his cheek and settle over the pulse on his neck. "You will keep wearing the tracer."

He can see the break in Katze's eyes – the way they widen, then narrow, and how he is trying to hide what he really thinks. The sudden shocking realisation that Iason won't be moved. The flicker of protest and incredulity as he blurts out, "It's changing me, I can feel it. This place is comfortable. I like being with you. But it's not real here. I want to go home, Iason."

"It's as real as Ceres." Iason's fingers lightly curl and stretch again. "Eos, these shiny corridors and halls... as lethal as your streets. There is nothing for you in Ceres that I can't give you here."

Katze's features look hollowed-out but his tone picks up aggression. "I don't want to be handed the leftovers."

"Fine. I see that we won't be able to come to an agreement this time." Iason's voice is soft, quiet, filled with something close to sorrow.

"I love you," Katze bursts out. "Why can't you get it?"

There is a long pause, silence seeping into the space between them, until Iason says, "I don't understand the concept."

"Of what? Affection? Haven't you learned it yet? I'm not going far. I'll be back."

Another break, then Iason says, "It isn't possible."

The colour drains from Katze's face. "Iason…"

"Let's create a reality," Iason says softly, "that we both understand." He turns to his own computer and calls up a few files. "Ironic, isn't it, that to move freely you need to be registered to an owner in Eos."

"You said it was pretend," Katze says hoarsely.

"On paper," Iason replies, "you are mine."

xxx


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**xxx**

**All warnings from chapter 1 apply to this one too.**

**xxx**

**"**_Did you ever think that it might have been different?" Katze asks, from behind his laptop. He doesn't look up at Iason who sits opposite him, a stack of holographic disks by his side. He is reviewing the latest sales contracts for Raoul's new line of live goods._

"_How?" _

"_I could have been the fallguy."_

"_Were you?"_

_Katze laughs. "C'mon, Iason."_

"_I could see what you had done," Iason says, leaning back in his chair so he can study Katze's hunched shape, the fall of bright copper hair, not long enough yet to hide the jagged scar that runs down to his jawbone where it is exposed. "You were all but bragging about it."_

"_You know I wasn't. You missed it. I wonder why." Katze glances up at him, a glint of gold, his smile distorted and ugly where the surgeon's stitches have pulled the torn flesh taut along his cheekbone and down to his chin. "But not even you see everything, right? Doesn't this annoy you sometimes?"_

_Iason wonders briefly whether it does, and brushes the thought aside. He thinks that, if he can manage to remain composed enough to recall the events that have brought him and Katze to this, it is other things that weigh far heavier than Katze's hacking of the system. Iason thinks of Raoul's face, and doubts mingle with disappointment, a shade of pain, and a new wave of white-hot anger. He resents it, as much as the rift it has caused between him and Raoul. _

_Some things never heal._

_Iason clutches the armrests of his chair to keep his hands from hurting or breaking things. "Have you made it your goal to provoke me? Do you find this entertaining?"_

_Katze's smile fades until it is just a shadow, empty in his white face. "No," he says softly, in that cool, smoky voice that makes Iason shiver with hunger. "It calms me down."_

xxx

It is Raoul who formally notifies Iason of a breach of the security protocol that protects Iason's personal computer network, something only a handful of people have access to. They have been carefully vetted by a specialised security team that answers to Raoul directly, and to the Council should the need arise.

Raoul looks pale and drawn when he talks to iason, quietly, over an untouched meal at the Eos Tower restaurant.

"I do not know how I can cover this up," he says, his hands flatly on the table. The food has gone cold, and the wine stale.

Iason says nothing. He listens to Raoul's detailed explanation without looking at him. Instead, he gazes out of the window that offers a view similar to that from his office suite.

"We nearly missed it," Raoul continues, "Whoever did it is very good, and it has to be an insider, someone with a good knowledge of our systems."

"And?" Iason breaks the sudden silence.

Raoul clears his throat. "We analysed the logs reaching back at least two months. I am still working on it, but I can say with certainty that he would also have known your schedule and habits."

Iason sits completely still. A single hair across his face stirs in the rhythm of his breathing, the only sign of life.

Raoul leans forward. "Iason," he says, barely above his breath. "There are not many who-"

Iason rises so abruptly that Raoul falls silent, gazing up at him. Iason stares down; his face is flushed, and tiny beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead. "I will deal with this," he throws at Raoul. "Do what you must."

Raoul rises, reaches into his jacket and pulls out a handheld scanner. He holds it out to Iason. "You may wish to use this. It is programmed to silent alert when it detects a fresh network breach."

For a moment, their eyes meet, until Raoul bends his head. "I will wait," he says. "I might be able to contain this."

The signal reaches Iason as he rides the elevator up to his suite, and when he yanks open the door and storms in, he sees Katze scoot back from the computer, the flicker of data bursting into cyberspace, and Katze dropping to his knees and holding his hands over his head in a vain attempt to shield himself.

Something breaks loose in Iason with the first blow he strikes across Katze's bent back. He is using his staff of office, hard and heavy, with its spearlike tip and sturdy butt, and soon Katze's gasps of pain become yelps and screams.

He only stops when Daryl steps in, shaking and silent, with a tray of coffee.

xxx

When Iason checks with the hospital, he is told that Katze cannot be found – the bed empty, the medicine cupboard in the nurses' dayroom raided, a doctor's security pass is missing along with clothes and money from a locker that has been broken open.

Iason switches off the communication unit of his computer, sits back and folds his hands in his lap. He listens into himself. Gone are anger, disappointment and the blinding, sickening hurt that had overwhelmed him earlier. He hears silence, cold and familiar.

On the tracer he wears strapped to his wrist he can see the red dot that marks the location of Katze's tracker cuff. It slinks erratically across an area on the edge of Mistral, and when Iason zooms in requesting an interpretation of the data, he realises that the dot is bobbing over rooftops stretching along an industrial road.

He wonders briefly whether Katze has the gall to mock him by strapping the tracker to a cat, but it does not matter, because he believes that there are not many places Katze can go to, and that Mistral is along the way.

Iason orders Daryl to keep visitors out and stay in his room, and then he begins to search for Katze by following the stream of data that everyone moving in Tanagura leaves behind.

You can thin it out, he thinks, his fingers moving on the keyboard, but it will be there if you have the ability to see and the means to magnify it.

xxx

By the time Raoul knocks on the door of Iason's office, Iason has a good idea where Katze has gone. It is a matter of time, he thinks, and pride. Non-Elite should know better than to challenge Elite.

xxx

In a small, white room in a dirty building in the heart of Ceres, Katze slowly wakes from unconsciousness. Bare under a thin white sheet, his legs spread, he is stretched out on a narrow cot. In the back of his hand sits a drip, and and a medical monitor is attached with sticky pads to Katze's chest to count his heartbeat and measure his breathing. By his bedside sits Iason, wearing plain, dark civilian clothes and black gloves, his hair tied and tucked into his collar, a pair of black shades pushed up into it.

"I see you are awake." Iason doesn't expect an answer as he talks at Katze who lies still, staring up at the ceiling. "I was summoned to have my mind scanned – do you know what that means? We can be wiped, too."

Katze turns his face towards the wall.

"Perhaps," Iason continues, "Raoul is right. You lack the capacity to understand."

"I understand," Katze says, his voice scratchy and barely audible. "That you promised not to do this to me."

"You left me no choice." Iason leans forward until he can see Katze's semi-profile. "Do you know how alone I am?"

Kate says nothing, and Iason draws a slow breath. "You found out things that no non-Elite has ever seen, and you know things about me that not even Raoul knows. You sent this knowledge into cyberspace. You dishonoured me. Were you so scared of me that you had to betray me like that?"

Katze's cheeks colour, but he remains silent.

"Do you know what you found? You did not have time to look, did you? But you had an idea, and you gambled." Iason settles back in his chair. "I found most of the data and was able to contain the damage. But you? What should I do with you now?"

One tear trails over Katze's temple, and he clutches at the blanket that covers his prone form.

Iason lays his gloved hand on Katze's fingers and strokes gently. "Raoul understands more of this than is good for us – and him. This was the only way I could keep you."

"I don't want to be kept."

Iason shakes his head. He hits the buzzer and asks the man who peers into the room to remove the drip and monitor and bring some clothes for Katze.

It makes Katze aware just how naked he is.

Iason takes the small bundle the man brings, and sets it on Katze's belly. It is a house servant's suit of soft, off-white wool. "Get dressed. I want to show you something.

xxx

Katze, dosed up on painkillers that numb his mutilated middle, stares blankly out of the window whilst Iason drives, shunning the autopilot of his flash silver sportster. Iason thinks that perhaps Katze is too drowsy to be surprised that they're leaving Ceres. They glide back into Tanagura's shimmering heart, but Iason passes Eos tower and carries on until he reaches a vast, steel-grey comples of buildings that looks like an apartment complex on the edge of the city until they reach its perimeter. A wall, crowned by razor wire, armed guards – Blue Elite, scanning Iason's credentials before letting him pass – and another wall and checkpoint after a broad swath of no-man's land. It isn't unusual for a gated complex of flats to be guarded, but the wire and the double-checkpoints appear rouse Katze's unwilling interest.

"This," Iason says as he steers his car into a basement-garage, "is the Academy. The real heart of our world."

xxx

He uses a badge he wears like a keyfob in a buttonhole of his uniform coat, to swipe and open glassdoors leading into white corridors flooded by light that seems to come from the walls and seamless floors. Walking ahead of Katze, who follows because he has no choice, but Iason senses his resentment and anger. It surrounds him, thick like a thundercloud, and Iason waits for the first stroke of lightning to rip into the silence between them.

They reach another set of doors, and as they step through, a long, circular corridor opens to their sides. The corridor has a glassfront that offers sweeping view over a complex of buildings and gardens that it embraces. Like the miniature of an idealised Amoi, it stretches so far, they can't see the other side. And moving about this idyll, in pairs or small groups, are women – Katze has never seen so many of them, so beautiful. Fair, blue- or redhaired, exquisitely dressed and hung with jewellery that glitters in the golden light of the afternoon, they seem relaxed and at leisure.

"This," Iason says, linking his hands behind his back, "is where we are created."

Katze leans against the glass. He looks pained. "What?" he asks dizzily.

Iason gives him a glance that is at once scathing and amused. "What," he repeats, "what! Nothing happend to your mind. They," he nods at the women, "spend their lives here. They are created and reared, receive an appropriate education and are happy to bring new Elite into our world."

Katze stares, understanding seeping into his expression, followed by nausea. "I want to leave," he says, his voice tight. His face is ashen, and he seems cold in spite of the climatised warmth of the corridor.

Iason links his gloved hands behind his back. "They," he nods at the women, "Never do. They are conditioned to comply."

Katze sags, his head thudding against the glass as he begins to retch. Iason looks on, knowing that he cannot do anything to help without exposing himself to the cameras that monitor every part of the building. He wonders, briefly and crossly, how his power can be so large and so limited all the same, but shakes the thought off.

"Let us leave then," he urges quietly.

He has to control himself to not look back, to see whether Katze is able to follow, and he feels relieved to hear Katze's shuffling steps. He can't place what he feels, but he knows it is weakening him.

xxx

Once in the car, Katze sags onto the backseat. Iason keyes in the co-ordinates for the Apathia penthouse.

As the car glides away from the Academy, Iason leans back and gazes at Katze in the rearview mirror.

"There is no connection," he says, "between them and us. Jupiter's Code has ended uncontrolled procreation and eliminated the coincidence of biology and unsuitable environments. Our imprints are created an optimised blend of molecules, calculated to provide traits according to specification. An imprint is injected into a single, empty cell that is implanted in the host, who will be relieved of its burden by surgeons at the right time. Once born, we are brought up by specialist staff and educated by Elite mentors."

"Where're you taking me now?" Katze murmurs, eyes closed. Iason wonders whether he's listened at all.

"Home," he says, trying to be patient.

Katze groans and lies back until he's draped across the backseat. He covers his face with his arm, as if to shield himself. Iason reaches across to touch his wrist.

"Raoul wanted to send his headhunters after you. The Council wanted my head. They were just shy of a vote of no confidence, which would mean that I would have been relieved of my position and my mind would have been cleared. If I had not been able to hold them off, I could not have saved you."

"I don't need to be saved," Katze says, his voice low and exhausted. "And I don't need you."

"There is nowhere on Amoi, or offworld, where Raoul can't find you. There is nothing that will stop him if I set you free. I could not let that happen. You only lost... flesh."

"You're a hypocrite. You made me into livestock."

There is a long silence, the car weaving its way across Tanagura. It isn't far to Apathia anymore – the skyline rises with the jagged, glossy silhouettes of exclusive apartment blocks and penthouses, and the lush green of tree-lined avenues brightens the scene.

Iason pulls back his hand. "I have not changed what you are."

xxx

It takes some time for Katze to recover. Iason is busy navigating the choppy waters of the Council's inquiry into his private and business affairs. His trust in Raoul is shaken, but he deftly exploits their business relationship to secure Raoul's support.

In the end, he thinks as the Council decides that there is no case to answer, it all comes down to power and the will to use it.

But he knows he has lost something he cannot coerce, steal or buy back. Something of which he's barely caught a glimpse.

And Iason realises that it has changed him.

xxx

Katze recovers at a speed Iason finds perplexing. The redhead no longer argues against his role. He moves back to Eos Tower to wait on Iason and resumes his work, managing Iason's household and parts of his business. It is, Iason thinks, as if Katze had become part of the furnishings – silent, decorative and unobtrusive.

Even Raoul, attending a business meeting with Iason, appears to approve. Iason is not sure whether he understands what has changed. He carefully conceals his mind, and their meeting passes amicably, without the note of discord that has strained their working relationship since Katze's arrival. At the end, Raoul rises and leaves with a rather formal bow and the ultimate sign of respect, a symbolic not-quite kiss to Iason's right hand.

The balance of Jupiter's laws has been restored.

Iason is both angry and relieved, and wonders how this is possible.

xxx

Katze, a cigarette wedged between his lips, stands before the panorama window. Outside, the twin moons cast a purple glow over the sky, and below sprawls Iason's city.

Katze's clothes are strewn in a messy trail behind him. He holds a bunched tee in front of his stomach, high enough to bare him intimately but he can still pretend that he doesn't see the healing scars.

Iason, stepping into the office, pauses. Katze takes the cigarette and flicks ash against his reflection in the glass before bending to collect his rags and quickly get dressed.

Iason settles on the edge of the desk. "Does it really matter that much to you?"

Katze huffs, smoke billowing from his nostrils. "Man, Iason..."

Iason catches him as he tries to move out of reach. "Do you hate me?"

"I hate what you've done to me," comes the laconic reply.

Iason cups Katze's middle before the redhead can flinch back. "It happens to thousands. Many of you choose to have this done. It is nothing."

Katze gives a stifled groan. "You really don't want to get it, do you?"

"You have improved your situation," Iason notes, "is that not what you wanted when you agreed to come with me to Eos?"

Katze glances up at him, his golden gaze veiled by smoke yet sharp and probing. "Sometimes things change, you know. I... it wasn't enough once I got here."

"Then perhaps you want too much."

"Or you don't want enough."

Iason strokes Katze's shoulder. He has been looking for hurt or suffering, but perhaps Katze has buried it where Iason cannot find it. Iason decides to take this as a confirmation that he has been right, whether Katze wants to accept this or not. "I watched you," he says quietly. "Your kind of entertainment... it is interesting."

For a moment, Katze seems put out, before a lopsided smile curves his lips. "I guess you don't dance then? Or screw-"

Iason's grip tightens. "The purpose of that kind of... contact is to create intimate encounters. It means courting temptation, therefore Elite do not dance."

He is surprised to feel Katze go slack against him, and then the redhead links his hands behind Iason's back. "Some people gotta learn the hard way. You didn't go to Ceres yourself, did you?"

"I sent someone," Iason replies, drawing him close. Touch, he thinks crossly, the things it does to us – this kind of hunger that cannot be sated... why are we unable to stop once we have known it?

"Funny," Katze says, playing with a strand of Iason's hair behind his back, "but I think it pisses you off."

And Iason, instead of firing off a rebuke, remains silent because they both know that Katze is right.

xxx

On to the epilogue.


	15. Chapter 15

**Epilogue**

**xxx**

**All warnings from chapter 1 apply to this one too. Thank you to all reviewers.**

**xxx**

_They've driven out into the desert – a place without the need for decorum and codes, without the ever-present eyes of security cameras and watchful Elite soldiers. It is an empty space on the map of Iason's perfect city. It gets cold as the day fades, and dusk turns into night quickly._

_Katze sits on the warm hood of the car, smoking and shivering.. Iason stands by his side, hands linked behind his back. He had wanted to leave the confines of his office and his city, to render himself invisible for a while at least._

"_This is how you remember it?" Katze lets himself flop back, stretches out and closes his eyes. "Talk about reframing."_

_Iason bends down to loom over him, sliding his hand down to Katze's middle. "Our memory is more reliable than yours."_

"_Sure, and you can erase and overwrite it 'cos you are big momma's little machines."_

_Iason gives him a squeeze, and Katze winces. "Ouch," he rasps._

_Iason stares at him. "Do you want to lose your tongue too?"_

_Katze pushes back at Iason, as if to hold him off. "Who," he replies quietly, "would talk to you then? Your friend Raoul? Or Riki? Oh, I forgot – Jupiter."_

"_You purchased Riki for me."_

"_You didn't exactly ask."_

_Iason grabs the back of Katze's neck and squeezes hard. He can see pain blooming and fading in Katze's gaze, in the way his smile shifts and slips back into place as he regains control. "You knew what would happen."_

_Katze's lips part in a smile that in the deepening darkness looks like a black gash across his ashen face. "Cats... catch... rats..."_

"_Not every cat has nine lives," Iason snaps._

"_Go on," Katze gasps, "break my neck. Would you like that?"_

"_It would be easy," Iason returns, surprised at how cold he sounds._

"_No," Katze says, "it wouldn't."_

_Iason's lips almost touch his. "Give me a reason."_

"_Because," Katze wheezes, "I will do anything for you."_

_xxx_

**THE END / On to Red Cat 1.**


End file.
